Family Friend: short story

Family Friend

It was twenty years ago that Jeanette moved in to our family home. It happened slowly and secretively, like when you are outside in winter and suddenly you realise it’s pitch black. The light fades without you even noticing. 

I remember one morning when I was thirteen, getting my breakfast ready before school, I saw Jeanette sitting at the table in one of Mam’s t-shirts.

‘Morning’, she said.

I mumbled a reply and carried on buttering my toast. I tried not to look at her. The t-shirt was so small that I could see a strip of her knickers peeking out at the top of her legs, which were sprawled across one of the chairs. She was reading a newspaper and kept glancing up at me. Although I was used to her coming round for cups of tea with Mam, I still felt uncomfortable in her presence. She was different, not like the other women I had met, which consisted mainly of aunts and teachers. She had short, dark curls and wore loose fitting clothes. As I gathered my school books and got ready to leave she tried to make conversation.

‘Another day in school? Bet you can’t wait to get it over with! I used to have to wear a uniform like that, absolutely hated it. Although you’re lucky, you get to wear trousers, I had to wear this skirt up to here with long socks. Awful. And to make it worse I had the hairiest legs.’ 

She must have been embarrassed because she took a large sip of tea and choked on it. I didn’t know what to say. I thought it was strange that she was there, in the morning, sitting at our dining table. I wondered where Mam was, and whether Jeanette had her own bed. 

On my way to school I was followed by a feeling. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had seen that morning. There was movement in my belly, like being excited, or sick, but more sludgy and foreign. I passed the houses that I saw every day without really looking, the route was so familiar that my eyes would glaze over in a sort of trance. I was on my own, as usual, so my thoughts dripped uninterrupted, tapping my skull.

When I got home, Dad was in his armchair. Dad worked at the docks shifting parts for the ships which were built there. He was a short, robust man with a bald head and a forehead which made a shelf over his eyes. His skin was like a pig’s; thick and tight with light hairs bristling their way out. He never missed a day of work, so when the shipping company began to cut down his hours he became even more difficult to be around. Whenever I got home from school I would turn the key as slowly as possible so as not to wake him. If I was lucky, he would be asleep in his armchair, snoring in animal bursts. The TV was always on, a tiny window of black and white shadows which never held my attention for long. On that day, he was wide awake wearing a scowl. I noticed he had started smoking again. He had his back to me so I didn’t say hello. Big spirals of smoke seeped like gas from his chair and I held my breath.

‘Paul? Is that you, boy?’

He turned around to face me.

‘You been in school?’

‘Yes, Dad.’

‘Where are your sisters?’

‘I dunno. They walk a different way to me.’

‘They better not be loitering.’

I fiddled with the zip on my coat. I wasn’t often in Dad’s part of the house for long. It was technically the basement, so it was always dark, and smelt stale because he ate his dinner down there. Mam would usually clean it but they had been fighting so the room grew dust and its own particular stench. 

‘Come and tell me when dinner’s ready. And get that bloody woman to shut up, will you. I can hear her from down here, she’s been cackling away all afternoon.’

That meant Jeanette had stayed. Dad always referred to her as ‘that bloody woman’. Once I heard her call him ‘that oaf’, so I figured it was a fair exchange.

As I walked up the stairs I could hear voices in the kitchen merging with the clanging of pans. I never thought of Mam as a talkative woman until Jeanette started coming over. Mam always seemed quite shy, even in front of me and my sisters, but now she would hoot and howl like the women outside The Four Crosses. 

‘Oh, hiya Paul! Do you want a cup of tea? A biscuit? Food’ll be ready soon, mind. Come in and take your coat off.’

I walked into the kitchen which was more like a steam room. Jeanette was at the stove stirring a large pot of soup and Mam was sat at the table opening a bottle of wine. Her face was shiny and red and I felt like I was intruding, they were both smiling at each other. 

‘Hi Paul, how was school? Sorry, what a stupid question, I used to hate it when people asked me that. It was like, duh! Of course school was boring!’

I looked at a spot just above Jeanette’s head and said it was fine, thanks. I could never look in her eyes. At least she was fully dressed now.

‘Paul? I need to tell you something. Jeanette’s going to be staying here for a few days, the builders are doing up her porch. I hope you don’t mind. She’s a much better cook than me, so I’m sure you won’t!’

With this, they erupted into cackles, just like Dad said. They looked like they were floating around the kitchen, they must have been drunk. Jeanette turned the radio on and started moving her head from side to side and stirring to the beat. I got that same feeling I had on the way to school, like my stomach was beating instead of my heart.

After that, things changed. I don’t know what happened to Jeanette’s porch, perhaps it was never fixed. Either way, there was a lot more laughing and wine drinking. Jeanette was always there. I asked Mam whether she had a job, she said yes, she was a writer, although I never saw her write anything. Only read the newspaper and drink cups of tea in the kitchen all day. Mam was a nurse and did a lot of night shifts, so Jeanette would make dinner sometimes. Mam was right, she was a good cook, she would make noodles and curries with foreign vegetables. Dad would always grumble when I took his plate down to him, he’d say, ‘that bloody woman and her spices, she’s in Cardiff not Calcutta.’ 

Slowly, surely, the house became Mam’s and Jeanette’s. Posters began appearing on the walls, of temples in India and sunsets behind mountains. Mam started dressing differently, her clothes became looser and more colourful. Me and my sisters saw less and less of her. I even had to cook for everyone once, while Mam and Jeanette went on a walking trip. Dad refused to do anything, he said he was a working man, and that all I did was sit at a desk all day, so I should make dinner. I said why can’t my sisters do it but I could see his blood simmering in his head so I shut up. I made baked beans and scrambled eggs, all burnt. The whole house smelt charred, and I spent at least half an hour scrubbing the pans. We all sat around the table for a change, me, my sisters and Dad. We didn’t say much. As we chewed in a silence broken only by slurps of tea, we heard something slam outside, and voices, distorted. I had finished my plate so I got up and looked out the window.

There was an eight o’clock film over everything, an opaque blue, obscuring any detail. I could make out two figures directly below, to the left of the streetlight. They were locked together, kissing, stroking, then my chest seized up and I tried to breathe but something was lodged, in my throat, in my mouth, a nauseating panic. I recognised the car, it was Mam’s. Behind me, I heard Dad clear his throat.

‘What you looking at?’

‘Nothing’, I said, closing the curtains, shutting my eyelids.

But it wasn’t nothing. We heard the front door open and footsteps up the stairs. I saw Dad’s defeated expression as he left the room, and for the first time in my life I saw him as a tiny man, tormented and gnarled, riddled with spite and trapped in his basement. He had never looked so helpless to me, and when Mam and Jeanette walked in with their rucksacks and cold-bitten cheeks I could barely stay to say hello. That night I tried all the usual tricks to get to sleep; I hugged my knees and counted to a hundred, but nothing could distract me from those figures in the dark. Images came to me, uninvited, of legs entwined and knickers strewn on the floor, laughing faces, wine stains. I was alone in a house of women. Dad had deserted me, he used to ruffle my hair and coax me into playing football but now he stewed downstairs. All I had were my sisters, who were a year apart and much younger than me, and my Mam, but she had a new friend now. I was so quiet that I could have melted into the wallpaper, I watched life unfurl but there was nothing looking back.

I can’t say for sure whether I was ever happy, but during Jeanette’s stay I sank into a crippling stupor where I could barely speak. Each minute of her presence and each word she spoke became a part of the mud in my stomach, the dirty feeling I had become used to. When she touched Mam I turned away, when Mam said her name, I would tense up. This pattern went on, and down and down, for a whole year. I could not help but think that Mam wished she’d never had kids, then her and Jeanette could move away somewhere and Dad could fester undisturbed.

One day, a Sunday, I walked downstairs and Mam was crying at the kitchen table. She was wearing an old dressing gown, the flannel material looked like moss. Everything seemed to sag, her hair, her posture, and I resisted the urge to go and put my arm around her, it was too late for that sort of thing, she had become contaminated to me. Besides, she never touched me anymore. I stood at the doorway, silent. I watched. After a few minutes of listening to her punctured wails, I turned around and went back to my bedroom. I had fantasised about Jeanette leaving, and the whole family reuniting, Dad would move back upstairs and would start work again, Mam would make us picnics like she used to, we would even go on holiday to Cornwall, maybe in the Summer, I would be nicer to my sisters, we could play together again, I could bring friends home from school and no one would ask who my Mam’s friend was and why she lived with us. In reality, her absence only added to the sense of deflation that spread through the house, through the air vents, out the taps. Things were never the same again.

The last time I saw Jeanette was at Mam’s funeral. She sat directly behind me, her sobs outweighed mine. I still couldn't look in her eyes.

Chasing Tails: short story

Through a crack in the curtains (12:33pm)

She woke up in a sweat. The bedcovers twisted around her in a knot of sleep, like every morning. Every night was an ordeal. Her dreams were bloodied with anxiety; awkward scenes with past lovers, public shame and the losing of keys. Her jaw ached from clenching. It was the drugs, she thought. She had to blame something for ailments which spring up so uninvited; they could not be organic, surely. 

It took her back to childhood, when she dreaded night time ferociously. She would lie in bed with the light on, close her eyes, and wait for it to come. The shutting of eyelids switched on a projector, a slideshow of shadows who chased her into the night, past nine o’clock and all hope of daylight. Every night her eyes would close, heavy as sand, forced to meet the projector and its characters. The dread chimed with each tick of the clock. She had no choice but to creep downstairs and climb into her mother’s bed. Warm arms, maternal armour. When morning came she was saved. Even the weak light of winter granted her freedom, the slight hint of blueness meant there was a whole day ahead, only the world and its own snapshot of reality to observe. There was less fear when daylight came with its transparency. 

There she lay, older now, but still afraid. It was half past twelve, she had overslept. She kicked off the duvet which was heavy and stifling, and tore off her t-shirt, now soggy with sweat. The room was so still and so quiet. She looked down at the cage of her ribbed sternum heaving up and down, rapid with her heart. Closing her eyes, she replayed her dream.

I am in a house and we all live there in the house, familiar people, friends and some that I haven’t seen in ages but it feels like we’re living in a commune sort of thing, communal living, it’s a big house in a marshland with trees all around, it’s the landscape that I always go to in dreams, a vast stark bleak one, there is danger in the air, there is a house opposite ours, an evil man lives there, we are banned from going in there but one day someone needs some sugar so we sneak in and at first it’s fun, we look around the cupboards and giggle, but then there’s a noise and he’s almost back, we escape but the dread---

Paralysed by a danger always slightly out of reach. And now it was time to get up and out of this nest which held her captive. One glance around the room confirmed her suspicions of last night. She was in His room, again. She had said never again but she had lied. Her shoes were by the door, black boots marking where her consciousness had stopped at the threshold, leaving her body to bask in His bed. A slither of her dream remained above her, a wretched halo buzzing with aftertaste. 

The room smelt neglected, she had to leave. She dressed with shaking limbs. Outside, out of the door which creaked with complaint, the air fell sharp on her face, and the ground steadied her like a paperweight. The street was empty, strange, she thought, for a Saturday. Or was it a Saturday? Names of days and windows of time had lost their potency. As she walked, something faint gnawed at her, an appointment, a place to be. She glanced once or twice up at the sky, the sun’s misty glow, and thought of the days she had missed, all the fluctuating light which had slipped past her. She could not remember. 

Remember what?

With a mind far removed from the soles of her feet, she turned left at the crossroads, and walked down a lane which constantly curved to the right, as if you would end up where you began. Gradually the houses became taller, white-washed, more contained. There were bushes and gates outside each one, guarding against curious eyes. After a while, she stopped by a building, huge and square, and peeped in through the cracks of the gate. She could see through the windows only slightly, the dull sunlight had created a gauze. Figures moved, shadows danced, her eyes blinked and she lifted the latch and moved towards the door, crunching the gravel as she walked. How noisy it sounded crackling beneath her, as if the volume had been turned up. 

Sleep- my eyes so tired so restless I must remember to--- before I lie down before I close everything Dr. Sandson Dr. Sandson Dr. Sand---

There she lay, legs spilt in front of her, on the smooth slate porch. Her head bent down into her lap. She had collapsed in front of the building, underneath a plaque which read ‘Sandson Health Centre: We remember when you forget.’ It shone and loomed in the grapefruit sun. The sleeping girl snored and remained unseen. 

*

From the desk-lamp (2:07pm)

You remembered.

Did I?

Yes, you’re here aren’t you?

Am I?

Yes. Tell me about your dreams.

I can’t remember.

Tell me. Try.

I think I remember one image and I chase its tail but it runs so far.

What image do you have in mind?

A house.

Good. How does this house make you feel?

I feel dread. I don’t want to be here.

Here?

There. I don’t want to be there. It’s a bad place. 

Why? 

The man.

Tell me about him.

I don’t know. It’s the idea of him which scares me, not his body.

Good, good...

I can feel it now- that wrench- in my chest. It must be bad for my heart. Do you think?

We all know psychological ailments manifest themselves physically.

Yes, that’s what I thought.

Did you remember to take your pills?

I don’t know. I can’t remember.

I will up your dose. This is crucial. Notice any unusual side effects?

I don’t know. I can’t tell what’s unusual any more.

Good.

*

The fields dip and dive in the afternoon sun, sheep bleat faintly amongst the curves, and I hold your hand as you squeeze me like a lemon. It’s windy but I don’t mind. My face is numb and my ears ache but suddenly it’s all opened up and I can see again. As something sparkles in the air you come close.

Come, come.
I’m here.
Come with me.
To where?
Somewhere, anywhere.
I’m here.

Your voice sounds static and thick: jam falling in slow motion, sticking. I think of the snail that lives in my ear that I saw in a children’s science book once, and how it vibrates. It’s windy and I shiver. 

We must remember to- must remember-

The sun and clouds intertwine until they bleed into each other, orange and violent, I stick my tongue out to taste it but it shatters into crystals. I try to pick them up and you disappear, and I am left crouched down picking up sherbet. 

*

Out of a flickering strip light (5.14pm)

You made it then? Didn’t expect you to turn up.

No? Well I did.

Yeah, alright. Sit down then. Shall I get us a coffee?

Yeah. Thanks.

She fiddled with sugar packets as she watched Her walk up to the till. The coffee makers made whirring sounds, like time machines. She would not be surprised. It felt like the 1950s with the radio on in the background, music as audible as an afterthought. At the back of the mind but not solid. It felt like the 1950s inasmuch that she was not familiar with this moment, or the lightness in her bones. They felt hollow like a bird’s. There was a greyness to the day which screamed out for colour TV. 

Here you go, I remembered how you like it. 

Three sugars?
 
Yep. And a drop of milk.

I’m impressed.

Where have you been?

I don’t know.

You look a mess.

Thanks.

No, I mean, I’m worried about you. You look skinny. I can tell you’ve been back at His. 

She looked at her friend without knowing She was her friend. The woman who sat opposite was an imprint in her mind, like the curves on the flesh of her thumb, permanent but faint. She studied her face with a removed curiosity. She looked worn and empty, perhaps she was mirroring Her. She too felt worn, an empty sack, devoid.

Babe? Did you hear me? I’m worried. First you don’t call me then you don’t answer my calls, then you become all everyone talks about. Every day someone asks me where you are. You’re missed, you know. What’s going on?

The question mark hung dead.

Are you sick?

No. I don’t know. Maybe.

Are you sleeping?

I think so. I keep getting these dreams. They feel so real.

So?

It’s just...

She held her mug and felt the coffee inside vibrating with her nerves. The room was full of people, tightly bound to each other with conversation and ease, carrying on. They did not know about the danger on the other side, the gulping depths an inch away from daylight. What kept them so happy? Were they blessed with not knowing? It was the only thing she was certain of, she felt it rumbling in her stomach and coursing through her eye sockets. Knowing nothing, feeling it all.

I have to go. My shift starts at six. Have you got a phone?

No, I lost it. 

Well, I don’t know what to say. Are you coming to Sal’s?

When?

It’s her birthday tomorrow. Please come. So I know that you’re safe.

Okay.

She leaned her cheek upwards to receive Her kiss. 

*

From a streetlamp (8.59pm)

She was back at His door step, at the inch that bridges one side to the next. She knocked and felt the hollow sound. The door opened and she stepped in, following Him up the stairs with reluctance, but at the same time an apathy which held her by the the wrist and dragged her into murky moments such as this. The flat was full of smoke and week-old debris, scattered in piles like a modern art piece. There was a body on the sofa, arms covering the face, hiding in sleep. 

Come upstairs. It’s a shit hole down here.

She nodded. Without care or calculation she followed Him up the second flight of stairs, watching the creases of his jeans and breathing in the stale Fate in which she had been snared. His bedroom was just as she had left it. He had not tidied, why should He? He was immune to domestics. They say a tidy room makes for a tidy mind. His was mess.

Take them off. All of them.

She said nothing as she undressed. The light was cold and waning, lighting up her body with a yawn. She took off her t-shirt and jeans, stepped out of her underwear, watched as they fell. Her clothes lay on the floor like a bonfire waiting to be lit and she the witch to be burned. When she was naked she turned her back to Him and fell face down on to the bed, spreading her legs to the sound of His belt buckle crashing to the floor. 

*

Her mother kissed her forehead.

Remember, they’re only bad dreams. They won’t hurt you.

And the tears had soaked her pillow, made her hair stick to her face. 

Remember, this bed will keep you safe, it is like a ship which carries you to the next day, through the wild sea of sleep, until you are washed ashore.

Still Life: an interior monologue

Thank God, a break, a click in the back...a long...stretch, mmm. I long for a breath of fresh air but I am met with stale paint fumes and dust. What is it with artists and mess? Do we think we can get away with it? 

‘Do you want tea?’

Tea, of course I want tea, my poor dry mouth. Yes, Joey. Thanks, Joey. He looks disheveled as he walks to the kitchen. From the back, he could still be that same fresh-faced whirlwind I met decades ago. Still wearing that patchwork jacket we picked up in Camden Market, still with that awful hair, long and straw-like, unable to keep still. 

‘Sugar?’

Oh Jesus, why does he have to ask every time?

‘Yes Joe, two! I should get it tattooed to my bloody forehead so you won’t have to ask again!’

He always has been up in the clouds. The Free Spirit, The Political Activist, The Dope Smoker, The Starving Artist- all these labels that he wears with such conviction. Such a cliché, but I love him for it. We are soul mates, I suppose. Except we never ruined it by getting married, or having a relationship, or going on dates. The sex, though, that was good. Oh yes, I remember snippets and it’s enough to warm me up. I’d almost forgotten those two hazy months in Morocco. The sun, to go back to the sun, the dust, the sweaty limbs, the deserted mountains, the dirty knees. Funny what can happen with a change of temperature. 
I better put my jumper back on. I feel awkward sitting here in my bra, my stomach fat folding itself neatly above my skirt. I wonder why Joey asked me to sit for him today. I’ve done it countless times before, yes, but back when I had tight skin and a poor student’s physique. He especially enjoyed painting my breasts, I remember that.

The traffic whines and fades in and out, the ebb and flow of four o’clock. Out the window, birds fly. It looks romantic out there, pastel pink and blue sky...baby socks, baby mitten colours. People are leaving work, back home to their families. I’m jealous. Is my home a home? What is a home? Family? Yes, that christmassy vibe of warmth, spice racks, knick knacks on bookshelves. I wish I could go back to toys and stains, but instead my home is empty. Bare walls scream failure at me. I am on the edge, staring into future’s vacant plan. Everything crumbles. I mustn’t indulge in these poisonous thoughts, damn it, what use are these binges of self pity?

‘Here you go my lovely.’

What a sight, this is home. Joey standing there with two chipped mugs, a puppy dog slant to his eyebrows- pathetic, adorable.

‘Cheers, Joe.’

I wonder if he can tell that I want to cry, he must. But on he goes, the laid back bastard, rolling a cigarette, his feet on the table- I can smell them from here- as he whistles nonsense. 

‘Can I see it?’ 

I don’t know why I ask, he never says yes.

‘Sorry, how many sugars do you have?’

Ha, ha. A giggle melts me slightly. My worry lines are far too ingrained now, my past seems to be etched on my face, and I wish I wish I wish there was remedy. I should move to the sun and never turn back so my face is always warm. Instead I shiver, here in this damp room.
Back in the chair I go, halogen heater by my feet, assume the position. Joey fumbles with his paintbrushes and I suck in tears. Hardened old hag. This chair is uncomfortable, I feel achey and restless. Back in my college years, I would spend hours in the studio, until three in the morning sometimes. God knows why they let me, God knows why I stayed. I was never that good at painting but I loved being alone with the radio on in those spacious rooms, my oversized lumberjack shirt soaking up paint, which I secretly liked, it branded me an artist. I wonder why they hung out with me then, Joey and Dave and that lot, I was so shy and serious. Or should I say this lot, we haven’t moved on much in thirty years. Still hanging around the same old haunts, floating like ghosts of our youth. I wish we could grow up.
It’s getting dark outside, no birds anymore. London rooftops remind me of that scene in Mary Poppins. I always saw myself in a seaside cottage, mother earth with her teething cherub, watching Mary Poppins as he cooks spaghetti. He. Where is he?

I can feel Joey scrutinising, I am just a picture to him now. I should try not to frown, although my eyes might give me away. People will look and see sadness in paint.

Roots

Croeso i Croesor

Green shoulders welcome us
Ancient and rested;
A whole valley in its heart,
Steeped with a steady breath,
The beating of wings,
The slow step of a foot on grass.

I see it in sunshine,
bluebell fields with the
sharp smell of wood sorrel,
and Cnicht in its majesty-
lit up like a statue. 

Quarry carved hills-
scars left protected
(a snag on barbed wire
only scratches the surface)
And in these hills lay rivers,
by these rivers,
moss, and secret dens.

Someone blew magic in the wind,
years ago.
Tying us all up with a reedy thread,
placing a pebble in our palms
and sticking mud between our toes,
gently weaving us all
into the tapestry,
the big picture.

We are tiny specks on an eggshell.
But we will grow from our roots,
like the blossoms and leaves,
and the wind will whisper,
Welcome home.

________________________________________________________

That Time

Remember that bar
where we went that first time-
in a backward street 
facing the sunset.

Red door and windows, painted to look old-
a fresh lick though-
undeniably so.
Remember the table at which we sat.
The candle burnt
and we thought we were so above it all-
the flame, the street, the part of town
we’d just discovered
in our post-picnic haze.
(It’s the sun! you said)

Above it all- 
discoverers of a new world-
weary with new findings,
desperate for shock,
but eyes never wide enough
to notice the beauty.

We sat for hours 
looking bored.
You mentioned something sweet and final
as if we could never go back,
as if that point was the pinnacle.
Nothing could impress you, could it?
I acted unruffled 
but my heart was beating like a mouse’s 
under my thick layers.
Each time you mentioned the possibility of---
I frowned.
The beer travelled through us in an amber river,
down spirals of tunnels,
in darkness.

When it was time to leave and we were alone again,
in the backwards street,
I glanced.
To my side you were there.
But I could not see your arm.
You had your hand tucked in your pocket
playing with loose change.

________________________________________________________

Last Day

The water rippled
in the shade
As we used the creases of the riverbank
to spread, unfold.

Bones, we lay,
swapping timely schedules
for a wasted day.
Glad of it,
glad of the earth and moths,
and the smoke,
washing into clean air.

Drinking,
letting ourselves drift
one face to the next.
One voice enough-
twelve voices tickling-
the goosebumps on our arms.

The sun set shyly 
as we put our layers back on. 

_________________________________________________________________

In the words of Sylvia Plath...

I long to permeate the matter of this world...
belong to the grass and the stems, the roots
to push up with the daisies
and sing through their leaves
break off in the breeze, petal by petal
undone and hair flowing
feet in the ash, the burning ambers
and my head in the smoke
burning pine fumes up to the moon.
Down in the soil where it echoes heartbeats
and moles twist their noses at each beetroot sense
each twitch of the nostril
beating with its breath and fleeting with a cough.
To live in roots means darkness and warmth.
To live in roots means womb again
means birth on a different day 
and life on a different earth
from it and around it.
Earthy smells and grass stains
and forgotten conkers from summers ago
left there by boys who prance like lambs
from the top of the tree
to the faces in the lawn.
The silence of still- the stillness of silence-
permeates and breathes with long sighs-
tonight’s the night, I say with disguise.
Cat eyes glare from bushes
and question this night invasion-
sees no use in lament or regret-
we’re here now she says,
sandpaper tongue 
scratching to the surface of the words
and turns a blind eye on darkness itself.
As she prowls the roots 
she sniffs and finds me 
curled up like a foetus statue
rigid and stubborn in my ignorance
shut eyed and worn
not yet open to falling leaves
and the breeze they bring.
Whichever winter,
whichever spring,
each time table and life cycle
are contained in one breath,
and forced out,
let go in its return.

Springtime Scribbles

(free writing)

What colour would the moon be if you saw it on a Saturday?
Would its feeble light shine a skimmed milk hue with powder blue, dangling sneezes of moonshine, each handful of moon rocks and moon stones an aftermath of rags and bones
No astronaut could find or discover all the forgotten satellites that roam around the craters and through the gaps that the space buggies made through the cheese fields and the absent gardens
Your mother said you should have found somewhere cheaper to go on your Valentine’s Weekend you stared her right in the face
huge doe-eyed resentment and without blinking you spat on the floor
let it dribble nonchalantly down your chin and oh how your mother screams how it does pierce through the tiles
she says she says what to do with a maniac like you and she leaves and you lick your chin dry
All your friends ask you what was it like
truth be told you can’t remember you slept during most of your trip so you gathered bits of information and fused and moulded them together with a blowtorch, even, and constructed a collage of memories which you remember forever
And now its a Sunday you sit solitarily and sanitized all prim on a patchwork your bum fidgeting and wriggling where is the cat? has she gone to feed?
So you light a gas lamp and turn the TV on to sound only and you pour yourself a drink and you siiiiiigh
were you rich? you can’t remember
The room looks as if it was reserved for you all your favourite snow fur colours and pictures of you and that ghastly woman (a kidnapper you suspect) who seethes and represents all those tensions you embody in yourself and how did you survive in a bland baby bottle
You forget so you sigh and find solace in silence








________________________________________________________









Oh Time


Oh time- where do you seep?
Where do you drip-moments sleep?
I know you are there but
It’s hard to see your face
When days slip by- so sneaky and quiet

Oh time- you are so flimsy
A butterfly wing caught in the breeze
I stand mid in the garden
As you flutter by my eyelashes
Just for a second
And then
You’re gone

Weeks are put in an hour glass
And I stand in the middle
Of the sand storm avalanche-
Why won’t you slow down?
I am at the pinnacle and yet so far from it already

Here, I sit, I write
The sun shines this chill morning
It could be a double of any day
And I wouldn’t even notice
It’s just how things are, I hear you whisper
Even then,
Ears seem too coarse for such silver-silk words

When I wake up early-
(because that’s what you do to me, time, I’m addicted)
I feel ready for the day
But as it unfolds it’s satin folds
And I slide down it, so slippery and light,
I become less hopeful-
I miss the morning and it’s novelty

Oh time!
I can’t keep up
Slow down or disappear
Slow down








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Debauch-a-day

Silk quilts spill on to powder puff armchairs
Resting upon them, 
River flows of ash gilded in mould
And resting bodies too, red-ripe
Blood spat sheets
And soot black eyes
Overflows of wine and whiskey puddles
Vapour smell 
Incensed-ual intent
All the twisted inches and dead cells of yesterday
Hang from the ceiling
Chandeliers- yet no regret
Emanating vibrating and bloated with sleep
Paintings peer on
With vastness agape
Eros’s child no longer awake
She snores-
Over the credit cards and rizlas
To the fireplace and up and out
Until air is now deadened
With the stubborn hours
Morning snarls like a bulldog
Let off the chain
Comes charging through the slits
Through and through
The plum shade night