And again

I'm actually losing sleep over this. (There's definitely something wrong with me). Re-re-editing this poem as it still sounds too much like "Jam" to me. Hopefully all imitation will now be taken away as if it never happened.

2006
8am flicks eyes awake
to up and stand on topple soles
and take firm hold on woodchip walls
and thrown outdoors to red-brick street
and city shuffling shackled feet
to next grey roof and nylon room
with nowhere else to go.

Sleepwalk past a cage of grass,
drawn square in boardroom, shaded green,
and dotted with prescription trees
and blooms in awkward symmetry
and contrived peace, imagined quiet,
phantasmic space to punctuate
the grind of grit track growl.

Blessed with red light
Stop, turn green
and squeal of taxi slaps raw cheek
and bitter wind through urban funnel
and pane-glass towers, flexing double,
inviting eyes to glimpse within,
find hollow mirror, mutant forms.

Midnight glance at fortune star
finds golden hue of restless street
and drip of tap taps urban pulse
and tarmac, train-track, tight-breath lungs,
and flicker-screen of crass and colour
filling time and broadcast quota
circus reality feeds nostalgic real.

Rest in sleep brings muscle spasm,
worn flat joints, bionic limbs,
and nerves knot fast beneath cracked skin
and blue trail veins on every inch
and wheeze monoxide, pores seep pus,
exhaustion throttles, sirens ring,
your body forced through key-hole gap.

And this desert is full
And empty
And empty
And this desert is crowded and dead.

23/05/09

Another day slopes ahead,
Beckoned by a zealous wind
eager for some long-awaited date.
At it, branches grapple,
feebly slow the air,
the excited child
chasing butterflies -
an inconsequential prize
that simply shimmers away
again,
and optimism resumes without reward.

The sky's surface skimmed by clouds,
weary parents wrist-dragged
by their tireless child,
Hostages angry or hapless
bristles no concern,
Propelled by the promise
that nothing will change either way;
Blissed by the knowledge
that a life lived full
is trophyless,
Unatrophied by amoebic endpoints
that know only to divide.

The Loss of Spain (April 2008)

Empty asphalt stretches like a rubber band

into the sun.

It's melting, I think,

Anytime it could snap back

and bring me to a standstill.

No more running for me today.

A farmer has planted rows and rows

of tired trees.

Arching their backs they drag their leaves in the dust.

Waiting with heavy shopping

for the next bus somewhere else.

I don't blame them.

It's hot here after all

and the cicadas wail

in mourning all night long.

They're lost, I think,

the marsh must be a jungle to them.

I search out a clearing for them,

But the mess of green

is knotted tight.

It would take a lifetime to detangle.

Here and there the grass stands up-right,

Perhaps where someone's begun

to tease the blades free.

They've given up,

Put it to rest,

The follies of youth.

The cicadas know better.

They stay where they are and scream.

01/04/09

There I was again.  Tumbling through laughter and clinking glasses.  Watching the lanterns, strung by some invisible wire in the deep-sea twilight, swinging spectre-like but beautiful, and soothing.  The trees filled the still-warm air with their perfume (never fully realised by the makers of car air-fresheners) and the dried earth crunched below.  

A track, barely wide enough to stand side-by side flowed water-like through the dense forest.  Soon I’ll reach the clearing where the tents are erected and the fire-breathers erupt screams from the bubbling crowds.  

Around me faceless arms, caressing hands and the chirruping of friends’ voices.  My eyes streaming where they meet my smile and my heart racing as I twirl, skip and dance deeper into the valley.

08/03/09

I think some day we'll cross
upon some dewy pass
mid-morning.
High above the postcard valley
we'll talk of stonecircles
and sweating ham sandwiches
- the last time we were here.

We woke early, in arms
and fingers knotted
like the towers of a fort.
The warmth of the day
broke in
and lay with us on ironed linen
and the muscles of your shins.

Though childhood fells
may lie a little further than
my arm extends;
Though the spring-wound city
breeds stolid air and iron trees
at it's borders
- tangled metal hair,
the tightening web of my transactions;
Though you are nothing
but a trick of the day's last light
refracting off my edged nostalgia;
When I breathe deeply enough
I smell your skin.

Fail #3 - I miss uni - Some Poetry from 2006

Lent
Aching calm
consumes the house.
Alone
in hours of thought
and circles
sketched
behind my eyes.

My hands
are at my desk.
I watch them
sweep the page
with words
while dust collects
on clock-hands,
and the sun
never dies.


The Only Way I Love the Quiet
It was the last day of October,
remember? I was restless,
caught by city walls
and counted days
of stalking magpies,
staking-out the moss
between the pavement slabs.

That day we stood together
on the platform. Waiting
for the rumble of and escape
train to the lake.
Between us, static
silence smothered
the only space to breathe
within the whiplash pace
of a clockwork city.

When the doors opened,
a hundred miles north,
a shock of air greeted us
with flushed cheeks.
And at the shore,
the simple beat
of water, licking pebbles,
drew a rule against the swell
of our impeded speech.

We found our tongues,
of course. Even enemies
are never dumb for long.
So, as we limbered
up the fellside,
we strived to fill the time
with syllabic drudge.
Verbose lines of anything
with no relevance to us.

On the summit crags
we gulped the wind,
the drone of my last sentence
sliced mid-air.
Clouds were riddled,
stakes of sunlight
pinning lush greens
to the granite.
Knife-edge colour
rose in peaks
to prick the sky.

But my gaze was stolen
by two birds of prey
that swooped and waltzed
the stampeding wind.
They rode together
with ballet grace
and whatever touched me
found you too.

You took my hand
and I didn't waste words.

Our first moment shared
in silence.


Limbo
Here we sit alone,
assigned to boxes,
taking shallow breaths
clogged thick
with urban dust,
walking endless streets
becoming faceless.

My feet lead me
stone to stone
without direction.
I step to squint
at signposts,
bent in neglect,
while the city buckles,
groans beneath.

Through starless skies
and blind-spot sun,
the only light to guide me
seeps from under hoods
of network lamps,
to amber pools
inviting me to jump,
spotlight to spotlight.


Dead Skin
I woke early this morning
And cleaned my house.
It was the onion peel
In the kitchen
That inspired me.
The waste of an evening
Spent drinking wine
And chewing on the product
Of my whim
For haute cuisine.

I picked it up
And felt it crack
Against my palm,

Then looked at my fist
And thought of revolutionaries,
And wondered if every rebel
Held a trinket
Just like mine.
Their cause was for the future
But their fight was with the past,
And in a way,
They pushed for freedom
Of the fingertips
So that they may touch
And feel again.

I woke early this morning
In the mood for mutiny.
The onion peel felt foreign
In my hand.
In the yard
I let my grasp unfurl
And watched
As the flakes were lifted
And peeled
Like old scabs
That blemished new skin.

They caught the wind
And fluttered away -
Ash from the flames,
And the breeze
Took the woodsmoke
From my hair.

Fail #2 - a piece for uni back in 2005 - apparently my writing went downhill from here...

Three minutes ago I told the biggest lie of my life. One word. One monumental mistake of a syllable exploding from my mouth, and then it was over. I snapped my lips shut, feeling a vacuum expand inside my mouth, sucking my tongue dry. My stomach lunged towards my chest, trying to escape through my throat and suddenly I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. I averted my gaze, staring at my knuckles turning white as I gripped the sides of the table. My favourite restaurant. Not anymore. It is forever tainted, polluted by guilt. In one fraction of a second, one episode of temporary insanity, I have changed my life and my preferred eating place forever.

‘Will you marry me?’
‘Yes’

Never to return.

The car seems stuffier than usual, I can feel the buzz of static raising the hairs on the back of my neck, hear my heartbeat drumming in my ears. He burbles happily, blissfully unaware of my teeth grating against one another.

‘Can I open a window?’

Fresh air slaps me in the face and I feel my cheeks, swollen with blood, soften and relax. I watch as the lake fades into the distance, morphing from a crazed animal, passionate and alive, to a solid mass of grey. Such is life. It takes a while for me to realise it’s raining. A drop of water hits my eyeball and shocks me back to reality. He wants me to close the window now. The upholstery is getting wet. It’ll dry. I need the constant whistle of rushing air to fill my silence., to drown out his excited chatter and I still haven’t finished that pile of ironing. It’s waiting for me at the foot of the bed. A crumpled mess of Oxfam goods and hand-me-downs. Oh joy, my life is so fulfilling.

We pull in at our house on Terrinton Road, the middle of nowhere, Cumbria. Chloe from next door is pulling down the sheets from her washing line. I wonder what the point is when they’re already wet with the rain. May as well take them down when it’s dry, save yourself from getting soaked. Then again, one mad laundry-based rush is probably the closest thing to excitement she has in her no-frills and no-thrills life. But I cant talk.

He’s struggling to get the key in the lock, juggling with bags of quaint Cumbrian ornaments and other such clutter we bought despite good taste. But no, he doesn’t need any help. It’s ok, I’ll just stand here in the rain, why not?

And we’re in. The dog flies towards us, hell-bent on being the first one to piss me off. I should have bought a plant. Just like a pet only it doesn’t shit on the floor. He’s shouting now. At the dog, not me. He storms into the living room, flailing fists full of ripped up toilet paper and blabbering on about behavioural lessons. I tell him she’s creative but he doesn’t see the funny side. I’m starting to enjoy tonight. I give the dog a stroke and go upstairs to find that evil ironing pile. Yep. It’s still there. I had almost convinced myself it had been left so long it would have sprouted legs and walked out by now. I guess I could leave it another few days and see what happened. Yeah, take a risk, stop being so anal, live a little. I know I’ll be back here doing it in half an hour but I decide to humour myself. I could be a rebel, its just so much easier to follow the rules. Cuppa tea, that’s what I need. Maybe a garibaldi since its such a special night, or, hey, why not go all the way and crack open the chocolate hobnobs, I can afford to put on a few pounds now I’ve sold my soul to Dan the brick-layer. I shudder at that thought. Maybe I’ll add a shot of Jack Daniels to my tea tonight. Get quietly drunk and call the whole thing off., but that’s going to take a lot of PG Tips.

Downstairs Dan is fiddling with the video player. He thought we could watch a nice film. I think we’re going to miss Emmerdale but I don’t say anything. Joyce at work will fill me in tomorrow. I cant help noticing the silly smirk on Dan’s face, I hope I’m not about to sit through Robocop 2 again, he knows I won’t complain. The fuzzy mess of black and white on the TV screen crackles away and is replaced by a warning - "Adult entertainment" - Oh dear God no. Dan’s eyes widen and flicker my way, he gives my arm a loving squeeze and turns his face toward me. His eyes look as if they have been drawn on by a demented four-year-old with ADD, puppyish desperation, they say "Stroke me". He reminds me we’d agreed to try something a little different, spice things up, he says, and since its such a special night…THIS is his idea of special?! Dan-the-bricky-romance-specialist surely knows how to treat a women on her big night. When did life get so twisted and surreal?

I’ll blame it on our Dave. The brother. The evil being that set us up on our first date. "Dan’s a good guy", he said, "He’s loyal". He didn’t mention the wirey hair growing from under his collar, the pug-nose squashed into his otherwise featureless face, the bulge forever hanging over his belt and swinging a little when he walks. I was never the pretty one but it wasn’t until I met Dan that I realised all hope was lost.

There’s a spider in the corner. If I look long enough from my place on the sofa it looks like art. Thin, hair-like legs clutch the creamy walls. Black and cream and soft shadows where wall meets wall meets ceiling. I think it’s beautiful but I won’t tell Dan. His art is made of the grotesque wails escaping from the TV, oozing plasticity and sleaze, I hate to feel so seedy. I hate to sit in this dog-hair room, watching beads of sweat form on Dan’s temples, reminding myself to relax my legs when I notice I’ve been perching on the edge of the seat for over an hour. I was an average student of average looks and average ambitions. Get married, have kids, drink tea with the ladies at work. But now that I’m 33 and about to fulfil those dreams, I no longer want the average life. I want to get out, I want to move away. I know it’s just a pipe dream. Why try when you’re bound to fail?