Beneath your coat

Losing your mind feels like

Slipping your chaffed hands into a pair of rubber gloves

Plunging them into hot washing up water

Hearing the chink of porcelain, knocking against glass

Impossibly fragile.

Soon the water grows murky

You cannot see, nor reach the bottom

From the top of your head to the ache in your feet

Standing wooden, bones imploring, knitted sweater itching corner of your cheek

Passion in contrast, hot freedom, dusty legs slightly parted, cold between

An urge as you stand beside the sink

To dive in

Silent impulse on a cold day to keep your hands deep

As long as the water stays hot

That feeling when most of you is dry and clothed, but part

Is submerged in warmth, feeling like fingers working their way up

Stockings, underwear, the electric wire beneath wool

Into the mirage of your longing to let go, absolve yourself of .. it all

If you could release, lie back in kneeding waves

You might let your weary cracked elbows

Then shoulders, sopping, sink beneath

Climbing into the sink, patent shoes slipping

Brassiere faded by multiple wear, a grey strap, a bulge of apricot breast

Hair loose and dripping, reflecting against dull tin

A buttoned up woman trying to gain admittance

All thoughts stewing in your head like vegetables boiled in water lose

Their flavor …

As politely you wash and rinse, checking against light for water spots

No one shall ever know, the devouring urge beneath your coat

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The growing chronicles #4 Undone


Ageing backward

once a child

stuffed with potential

you could be burned and

engage future with the severed fearlessness of the young

who do not believe the bell will toll for them

and come a day

marked by tree rings of frigid growth

looking up at sky emptied of cloud

how cruel the season burns

secrets from the branches

 

that day

an altered girl sinks beneath bath water

marred by her loathing self

what emerges trembled in fear

keep the lights on mama

she is returning to unknowing

It is the dementia of the soul

clamoring for relief

 

her bones are no longer soft and green

they grow lean and she curls

away from herself

those days of succor and wiggle

when was the last time you touched her like a flower?

and opening she cried into you

tumbling into a shared well of blossom

 

we both wear silver in our hair now

released from knowledge, return to unknown

lying like a split pomegranate

seeds spilling out

mouths stained radiant

how did you live so long to trap yourself?

back in the box of musk and gunpowder

the lock sounds like a scythe

it is cold and unworn

opposing sides climb to the rumor

you are undone

Telephonic

tim-burton-bakerRing, Ring, Ring,

Except it’s 2017 your phone is set on silent you do not own an answering machine

from the nineties, accidentally recording overheard conversations

little tape cassettes, the mechanics listening, catch you shouting

the message goes ‘don’t leave a message’ followed by alliteration

doe ray me fa la tee

people dial-in, listen, to cacophony

whose house is this? what party line? her voice can you hear

it’s someone singing in the background

taping over

you quote the silence with your abstract

lying like a fallen star on the kilim rug

the cat nudges your head he knows you are not dead

would that you could warm yourself up like leftovers

swallow whole emptiness, banish that gut of bile

back then I recorded myself, how stupid it seems now, a voice in the comforter

what did I impart? love makes us opaque, lust even more so

you used to play my voice backward and say

that sounds like Bob in Twin Peaks

Fire walk with me would look good in ink

before tattoos were mainstream, we had no money for luxury

our pockets calcified and taut turned inside out like jagged tongues

of want and want not

in the smothering green light of your bedroom

I hid the places I didn’t want you to go

pre-wax, pre-tan, prematurely ejaculate

don’t call me I won’t answer my phone

Ring, Ring, Ring,

what chime, what sound, what soundtrack

do you carry?

mine is set on mute

if you asked to speak to me I could not

form sound

would you really want to hear my truth?

every step forward chalk on my shoes

hop skip jump throw the stone

leave a message after the bleep

after the fall

I’m leaving myself a message

get up now

get out of this house

climb from the windows if you must

do it fast before you grow into a place

you cannot claw your way through

nobody knows that neighbor, the mother of four

lies prone from 9am to 3pm whilst her kids

drink milk out of small glass bottles

in her bare feet and unwashed hair

garish scarlet lipstick sliced on limp wrists

how deftly you can cover your crimes with dry shampoo and

a dusting of perfume

wiping your mouth on the back of your horror

nobody knows how long you lived

not breathing

counting pills on the convex of your emptiness

and if they came

hauled you away, locked you in a padded room

filled your arm with urinal liquid, your mouth stuffed with ‘medicine’

you’d soon find an open door, fling yourself

glorious from fifth floor like a Rorschach crow

not all are made for asylum-life

feral animals cannot endure cages

the fax machine of the past, showed us our shadow

interpreting our malady as Jung

prophesied in his hunting vest

Ring, Ring, Ring,

Schroeder and Skinner take bets

packing tape wound round their vivisection

no-one is home please leave a brief message and we’ll

lose your distinctiveness in the rollerdex

you gave me yours in a wet crumpled ball

call ME! Blondie sung

in a snug t-shirt with her head larger than her body

this year I noticed my finger tips desiccating

despite warm temperature and heirloom seeds

the doctor said

this is the first sign of albinism

drink the days to your unnatural end

of your shrinking bones witherment

breasts diminishing like deflated ardor

bellies sag,  lost balloons caught in oaks

and what stood proud wilts

like tulips left too long in burned afternoon sun

Ring, Ring, Ring,

I am not a girl in ballet shoes

my feet are wrinkled and cracked like a beggar

who has walked too long for his supper

I do not want to eat the fat of the land

or the dish served cold

warmed with your insincere scold

for my weakness is abundant and I

lose moisture like a white fish licking brail

dries on Greek dock where you can if you squint

almost make out the shoreline of Italy

watching boats take others far and yonder

leaving crusts of their sandwiches for birds

the fish only seeks to return

to the deep still of ocean

(what would I say if)

my doppelgänger pushed me aside and ran to answer your insistence

hello it’s awfully good to hear from you, how am I? well …

I’m fair to middling for someone with a dagger in her back

depends on your definition of

walking underwater with undertow heavy beneath feet

cue the camera, take a shot, bang, bang!

the roaming dogs pee against your leg

on the shallow side of consciousness drift in and out

my pipe is smoky and hot with chastised resin

fingers dirty, the refuge of digging for my soul

you don’t want to hear that though … do you?

no question mark intended

I know your breed your pedigree your label

just as I gnawed mine apart

wove the strands into a length of yarn

tied it around my neck and vaulted

because I am the black dog we all avoid

who shakes her wet coat over dry make-believe

the echo behind the broken cup

one piece beneath furniture, the other

still containing a leached circumstance of water

we do not sup, you and I who have sober fists

I tried, I really tried, then the day went on without me

clocks winding themselves

girls pulling up their underwear in some basement flat

overlooking a river

men taking a piss in bushes, usually reserved for perverts

watching women jog in tight shorts, bounce, bounce, bounce

Ring, Ring, Ring,

is anybody there? What do you say?

are you home? Are you sleeping?

no and no

anything but the shape of arms

making circles against bare wall

here is my crucifixion

behold

words we never tell

are pigment

and egg yolk

and torn hose

 

Clasp

freja-beha-erichsen-tomek-szczukiecki-for-interview-magazine-designscenenet-03I miss intimacy

not the kind that comes with notches

but holding back her hair

spooning her smiles

into my lap

she claims my whole in little hands

where I see the flush of cheekbone

eclipsing against wool

if leaves fall outside we do not

clear them from dry grass

fervently my kisses

linger beyond chiming hour

expectation demanding we

still our rapture for mundane

wash dishes

scour chores

instead lying in each others arms

our low fire keeping at bay

worldly cares

nothing but this exists

surrounded by shadows we

persist in our linkage

pulling faces at the chill

edging our clasp for one another

as two children lost in forest may

share timbered warmth

I miss her plum mouth

the way she reserves the longest

embrace for passover darkness

how her body surges like

a water wheel against my slow pull

as if I am garnering from our union

the best of us both

encased in fire, disputing chill

without her I am just a person

tredding tightrope

touching concrete and fabrication

like a carpenter, void of wood

should raise his empty hands

beseeching listening deity

for the weight of

his craft

she became the life preserve

and I the blinking shell of light

guiding her to familiar shore

without each other

we are simply icebergs

seeking dissolution

in barren stretch of ocean

This time will come again

yuri-shwedoff-wolf-pack-internetThe saw they used

had teeth like rabbits unaware

they were herbivores

her shell broke

like a blue egg

on turpentine floor

for the ants to summon

their legions and devour

she could smell her own fall

by the pinch of their envy

though why anyone should

be jealous she found absurd

as plates will chip

when placed on top of one another

we leave the best for last

scouring her hide with vinegar

all the holy and the ivy

thrown in pyre to await

her defeat

she tried to tell them

it’s not me you want

it’s yourselves

the competition is within

I am nothing

but a representation

the dreaming void

or lost moon

reflecting your own

do not bury me with nightshade

violet on my tongue

strangle my words

because you have none

this time will come again

as all circles are undone and reknotted

by fate and the scepter

in the wrists of those

cutting down

trees who only seek

that silence of being above

cacophony of rude arrows

felling our roots

though we strive

only

to master ourselves

 

 

Fur

3d5e44b257578850726dffec1e5af373If we are honest

few things are honest anymore

everything is manipulated or

viewed through a lens

where is truth?

truth isn’t what most people want

not really

if a woman says

do my thighs look big in this?

is she asking for truth? or encouragement?

sometimes truth burns

sometimes it’s like an assault

if you live in the path of truth too long

you become immune to its sting

and nothing can hurt you anymore

but freedom

is not for everyone

 

the truth was

she hadn’t loved me in an eternity

if at all

whilst that felt like acid on my soul

it released the hope

to find another host

someone maybe who wasn’t being lied to

told she was the most beautiful

told she hadn’t aged a day

told she was the only one

how often is that so in a crowded world?

Disney would have us believe

frequently

but love

the real kind that doesn’t like the over-used name

that love is rarer than anything

maybe it doesn’t touch every person

you have to be capable of it

few are

it takes a humility of spirit and a depth

this society doesn’t encourage

 

the only way forward

listen to your gut

the feeling of worms and knives being turned

tells you when something isn’t right

even if others protest so loudly

it splits darkness from night

hold on to your truth

it’s there on the edges of deception

always reflecting never concealing

how easy it is

to believe someone when they say

it will only ever be you

there will be no one else

you are irreplaceable

how easy to want that to be true

 

but we are only savages playing in

high heels and wigs

we are wolves sitting at wooden pews

kneeling before weeping effigies

is it any wonder they cry for us?

we are children licking our sticky fingers

and plundering the honey jar

we are humans without conscience

if we briefly entertain it

soon we’re running in the opposite direction

for it takes the end of ego to

go to war with illusion

far better to sup on the drug that promises

a less sorrowful life

 

who wants to believe they are not

the one who will be loved

the one who will be held dearly

who wants to believe it might not

happen to them?

rather we deceive ourselves gladly

for one toke of the pipe

one last hit

a quick injection of bliss

to believe even as the voice inside says

this is not real

the fantasy, the fairy tale

we grew up thinking showed us

the future

as faulty as a soothsayer

gazing into empty crystal

there are no answers in lies

 

so when she told you

you were everything to her

she omitted the part that came after

unless you’re no longer

in which case another

will in time replace you

and you will walk alone as you

always have

wondering why

your heart was built of

fur

prickling from the

inside

out