Flowers on a black background
wound around the stump
pouring out of pallet crates
apple box wood, dainty blues, glitter yellows
one plant with many flowers
buds and vines encircle
take back the city for yourself
wind through cobble cracks
decorate the station and the hands of the people
crown loved one’s dainty heads
drip out of pub windows
make the street a swollen stream of petals
yellow darlings work away
When I write things from memory – Fresh
It weighs on me, to remember how I so regularly felt,
Straight from my real memory, I lose that step of distance between me and it.
Rather than me reading what I wrote then, and copying it down all studious,
I’m there in the awful moment where trauma put it’s foot down.
The gentle breath of digital cogs wheels me on, whirrs me into so-called productivity.
It’s the hardware really, I work with an old, well-used machine.
My feed is not an echo chamber – sometimes there are things there that make me sad and ashamed. I can’t always engage because I don’t have all the time in the world.
The hostility that might meet me would drain me of my life blood.
The electric runs through these wires, provides a receptacle and a dispenser for hate that’s displayed in my screen – I read it, my eyes take it into my heart and I learn again the state of the world and what we’re dealing with.
A bloody tradition defended so viciously by people who are made of delicate flesh and bone.
Why do you, a creature of blood, yearn for the spilling of an innocent?
Why do you defend the cruelty of those that would tear you apart if you were in a different body?
clothed in walls and “take care of yourself”
Shared experience of a shared body,
Moments where I see your face change with pleasure, flicker through my vision,
It flits in my underwear and makes somewhere behind my eyes heavy.
Of course I still think of others sometimes, I’m no liar.
A new love reminds me of old ones, other intimacies that came and went, people whose bodies fitted differently with mine than yours does,
The comparative instinct draws me into worry, that our blossoming intimacy isn’t what it was with him or her, how should it be?
You’re so gentle with me, and I see real emotion in your eyes, feel real feelings in your touch.
Tight metal joints
I crawled through
thorns to be with me
Heart muscle ribbons
flutter in the wind
My eyes catch the light,
it’s rays jut through my brain,
decorate my perception
I unfold my limbs and glide onward
A tiring limpness tempers me, I glide onward.
Affectionate walls kiss my skin, hardly fit.
Painted ceiling eyeballs roll at angles – too close
Expressive and unlidded.
I’m too big for this room.
Painted eyes on the ceiling
Squash me into foreign corners.
It’s not that far away but the whirr of the train tires me, the noise of the crowd, tickets, barriers, rush, the thought of the drunken tits on the way back, it tires me. Second quick train – the wait, the seeking out orange numbers on light up boards, following rows, “Is that mine?” “Which platform?”
So that when I get to you, all I can do is rest, rest in your arms and worry about the way back.