bedridden
one’s view
is upwards
i see
the sky,
midwinter blue,
the trees
some bare
(the gums
still green)
against the shining blue
a bird improvises,
i applaud.
from within heat
of sickness
i think -
that if I opened my window
it could almost
smell like summer.
July ‘08
the hurt of losing
never dulls,
even when it’s been so long that you almost thought
you’d never lost.
but on extending a hand
and receiving a slap
you remember.
Not just the loss
but what came before,
the laughter and connection
the companionship
which seemed unbreakable.
recalling the loss
never hurts so much
as recalling what was lost.
June 2008
through filaments
poison-tips of hair
- and there
between your words
and your smile -
nearly caught
but never quite close enough
is the true meaning
of what was.
Transmitted along
the wires that carry
your hot blood
to your hot fingers
and your cold feet,
is a message
what you and I
never have the words for
as we press close together,
never close enough
though so hard it’s painful.
the data carried
by each strain of each muscle
the morse code pulse
of each swollen vein
the sweet distress call
that leaves me hanging
The foreign-language laughter
of a heart in pain.
March ‘08
You are the shadow
of what I wrote of you.
My stories
they are plain
but you are the page underneath -
the indented words
and the ink that ran
You make me want to connect the dots
spots of words gone through
turn letters into a picture -
make a thousand from a few.
February ‘08
you are callous
and I am a bit like tissue paper
when it’s wet
when I’m wet
you’ve got forms beyond my experience
shapeshifting and bullshitting,
you’re honest because you believe everything you say
with complete conviction
No, I would not call you a liar;
You’re simply
so stubborn in your belief
of your own words,
that the world bends to your will
it isn’t “simply”
and it took me forever to work that out.
I am precious
and you are a bit like rain
when it’s unforgiving
when I’m underneath it
rain does not lie
and I hate it
for always being right.
January ‘08
I smell my lover in my kitchen
and sometimes my clothes
when I’ve been hanging round his memory
or cooking something
especially nourishing
I smell my gifter in my bedroom and my cameras and my work
I smell the man I once knew in his hair in a box
there with the love letter that was more an apology
and the sweatiest piece
of stripey headscarf
I smell my youngest oldest friend in coffee
which is a pity, really
since that is the way I am trying to seduce
this new man
but then my males do tend
to overlap each other
they’re all angels
this new man is beautiful and shy
like my lover once seemed
I wonder if he, too, will become a rarity
a once-in-six-months company
the end
January ‘08
The proximity of your comforting frame
is lacked
I will not say missed
because you were right on target
and you always are.
I’ve just got cold feet
and would love the chance
to resist putting them up against you.
I am disgusted
by petty domestics
do I think I could do better?
well yes, perhaps
but mainly
I just want the chance
to bring you your towel when you forget it.
January ‘08
the edge of a river
somehow joy in fright
and understanding
there will be joy in flight
feet bare on softness, one toe
two toes
dipped below the icy skin
fear seizes my heart, a breath
of sharp cold air
and yet
and yet
overwhelming urge to
dive
2007
I am writing a book
In the dark.
I’m sorry -
the light would wake you.
I’m writing a book -
I’m sorry.
I’m not going to tell our secrets,
I’m sorry -
if you worried.
What is the book about? It’s about-
- I’m sorry!
You didn’t ask.
Would you like some milk?
I’m sorry -
for not thinking of it earlier.
Why do I feel like I’m -
I’m sorry!
for things you’ve done?
The TV’s off, the bedroom’s clean
but I’m sorry -
I left some dishes.
I’m afraid you’ll have to do them,
I’m leaving,
And I am -
I’m sorry.
2007
In a pulse
In the way
my heart quickens
in a pang,
in a desperate left-turn sidestep
whirling girligan
hula crazy
absence
what are you finding?
Behind your couch,
in candles blown out
I am finding pieces of you
wrapped up in old socks
held together
with mangy hair-ties,
in between a particle of dust
and a dead fly’s abandoned leg
you are there
or more, what you were
and what you passed to me -
with a sense of martyrdom & legacy
- is becoming slowly my self-awareness,
my left-turn right-march
falling on the floor
jump up dedication,
my strive
and drive
and yes,
In a pulse
In the way my heart quickens
I hear what you taught me
and can no longer uphold,
urging
me onwards
and up.
November ‘07
