Knotted

Posted: February 13, 2014 in Poetry

Jack Ketch’s footsteps
Echo on the black wall.
I’m doubled; constrictor-ties choke.
I gasp to breathe your air.

My dogshank eyes
Fill with your tears;
But my beautiful, butterfly bends
Won’t unravel.

My Gordian lover;
Entwined and entangled;
Plaited with hope;
Knotted with blood.

Hitch your hook to my noose.

Hang me your way.

Phoenix

Posted: September 16, 2013 in Poetry

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Blazing and brazen;
Watch my wings unfurl.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Fire-flicked and fury-licked;
Taste my flames.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Scorched and scarred;
Lay on my ember bed.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Furnace-fierce, internal-inferno;
I’ll burn right through you.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Molten-malice, combusting-kisses
Melt you in to me.

At night, I am a Phoenix.
Searing and soaring;
Turning to ash.

At dawn, I am flightless…
Lifeless…
Tar and feather me.

Help me fly.

 

Cloudrem

Posted: March 25, 2013 in Poetry

I’m falling,
Deep down into your words.
Alice’s rabbit has beckoned me in;
Too late to look back now.

I’m falling.
Calligraphic sentiments
Kiss my ‘i’s and cross my t-eeth.
Letter-case me your way.

I’m falling.
Your alpha beats to my rhythm;
I harmonise your notes,
Taste sweet letters on my tongue.

I’m falling.
Your linguistry laps my wounds,
Heals my scars,
Bestills my trembling hands.

I’m falling.
You indent my dreams.
Catch me in the curves
Of our italicised hope.

I’m falling.
Stitch my broken wings and
Watch our worded wanderlust
Take flight.

I soak into your words.
Alice’s rabbit has beckoned me in;
Too late to look back now.

I’ve fallen.

Tears at the Yaramar

Posted: July 23, 2012 in Poetry

I clasped the hand of my sand-storm lover,
As we walked the beach at night,
Picking amongst the debris
Of a thousand shipwrecked dreams.

I stared into forever with my sand-born lover,
As we paddled our toes in tomorrow;
Listening to the waves whisper
Promises of tide-born hope.

I sought solace in my sand-lorn lover,
When we kissed as the sun rose;
Pouring sea-salt tears
Onto broken, seeping wounds.

I tasted fear on my sand-swarmed lover,
As we drank messages from bottles,
Crushed stones in anxious fists,
Ground memories between teeth.

I uttered my sins with my sand-torn lover,
Cowered in our sea-sick confessional;
My knees still bleed from the shards of
What was left unsaid.

I drowned in the eyes of my sand-sore lover,
Wept as the sun set on my Yaramar dream.
My king amongst the midnight flotsam,
My pauper in the sun.

Reverb

Posted: June 5, 2012 in Poetry

There is science in our song,
Song in our science.

There are no dischords;
Lust majors the minors.
Semi-breve to semi-brief;
Our score is etched in time.
No songs are banned between you and me.

Watch our test-tubed emotion react.
You are the alkaline to my acid;
Neutralise me.
Our petri-cells multiply into mitosis melody;
We harmonise to synergise.

You play me with the hands of a maestro;
Cantabile kisses, cappricio caresses,
But our musicality harks of unknown minor keys.
Your deceptive cadence clashes with
My damaged dissonance.

But there is science in our song,
Song in our science.
Your bassline reverberates through me.
Strum my scar tissue-strings,
Hear me sing.

Mercy’s Corner

Posted: May 13, 2012 in Short Stories

The smell is disgusting.  The mixture of piss and decaying meat is how I imagine a month-old corpse to smell. You know, a corpse that’s been left to bloat and fester undiscovered, like that chap in Brixton I read about last week.  They only found him when a cat was spotted playing with a gnawed-off finger. When they got in his flat, he was just a nameless lump of rotting flesh.  His eye sockets were writhing with maggots.

I stare at my father slumped in his faded Queen Anne chair.  A bottle of Bells lies abandoned by his side, its backwashed contents seeping into the carpet, staining old stains.  I paid £12.99 for the whiskey at the Polish shop down the road, it’s cheaper at Tesco but the walk is too dangerous. It’s never worth getting dog shit encrusted on your soles, just to save £1.50.

How easy it would be for me to hold my hand over his mouth, to pinch his nose and watch him struggle with his alcohol-numbed limbs.  That would put us both out of our misery. That would mean I’d have to touch him, though, and I’d only do that if armed with a gas mask and industrial Marigolds.

He never eats, just glugs his poison before pissing it out into his trousers.  Sometimes I wonder if when the cirrhosis does finally finish him off, whether his body will decay like a normal corpse. I’m sure that all the booze he’s drunk will embalm him from the inside-out, and preserve him for evermore. I could keep him then. I’d wash and shave him and dress him in his smartest suit, the one he wore to Mum’s funeral. I’d play his Bobby Darin LPs on Grandma’s old gramophone whilst we played dominoes. Just like we used to.

Joan Collins winks at us from the TV screen. The foam pads in her gold Lamé make her look deformed. Her lips are stained with L’Oreal’s Cherry Passion; she looks like a whore.  My Dad’s had a soft spot for Joan ever since he saw her on the cover of Tit-Bits back in ‘51.  That’s why he married my mother; he always said that with her hair up, she looked like Joan, only with chunkier ankles.

I’ve laddered Mum’s stockings again. She wouldn’t be happy with me.  As a child, I would sit on the floor and watch her as she put her tip-toe up on her dressing table stool. The stocking would be crumpled around her ankle, as though her leg had discarded it like a snake skin. She’d pull on baby blue cotton gloves and delicately slide the nude silk up her leg, before securing it with straps at her thigh.  I loved how these stockings changed her skin; all her blemishes vanished under a silken illusion of perfection.

I always try to be as careful as her when I put on stockings, but I guess men’s hands will never have the delicate touch of a woman’s. My fingers are calloused and rough from years picking litter and cleaning the cobbled streets. I’ve got an old pot of Mum’s Ponds Cold Cream locked in my bedside draw that I put on my hands every Friday. There’s hardly any left now, though, so I use it sparingly.

Dad saw me once, dressed in Mum’s Sunday best. It was a blue viscose tea dress, sprinkled with small white flowers. I remember her wearing it the Easter before she died.  All the men stared at her as we walked to church. I didn’t like them looking at her like that. I spat at them when her back was turned.  I wonder if I look as beautiful in it as she did.

I was getting the meatloaf out of the oven when I felt his hands on me.  He cupped the curve of my buttocks as I bent over, murmuring her name. I’m not sure if he knew it was me and not her. Either way, he didn’t seem to care. I heard him fumbling with his zip. I stayed bent over and clung tightly to the hob. Maybe my plan would work after all. If he thought Mum was still alive, maybe he’d stop drinking. Maybe he’d get better.

 

Labelled

Posted: April 19, 2012 in Poetry

I wanted to share this poem with you in its purest form, before editing, re-writes and improvement. This is it in its rawest form as my mind saw fit to spew out…

Lids stuck with labels;
Glue seeps into my tears;
Streaks mark my pallid face:
Tattooed suffering for those who look, to see.

Oh, out dammed spot;
I rub but can’t remove;
Scrubbed raw, an open wound:
Those shadows play havoc with my weary eyes.

Violent concerto;
A rhythm of pain;
A symphony of bruised hope:
Your strings make me burst into flames.

Are my tears more worthy now?