Prose for goodness sake get off the roundabout, you might fall. Don’t go developing a healthy sense of balance and risk now. Poetry, yeah course you can go and play near the train tracks -just don’t lick the track or anything because trains never wash their feet, good lad.

I can let poems out of the cage as unfinished monstrosities,

as lumbering creatures sort of sewn together, but not quite –

all the filling sort of hanging out like a burst silicone implant (I watched a lot of surgery programmes today).

But not prose, it sort of gets treated like the over-guarded, over-disciplined older child.

It feels too real and I feel like it has to be better, has to be more of a photographic representation of my feelings… I just can’t be as playful or carefree.

And I find that annoying.

Because my feelings are in flux all the time anyway, “so what does it matter?” I ask.

But what if by the time I press publish it feels out of date?

I don’t know, I just can’t let go of it the same.

But I’m sure I will, I just need more practice and more time, a few months ago I would have felt sick posting a poem on here and now I’ve posted over 200.

I feel like I’m being very lax with them darling, don’t you think?

00:18 – moving through the self from a few hours ago

double zeroes by the smiling eyes and my brother’s age.

that’s the time

and i’m tired

and by the time i’ve typed this

it’s another time – i’ve changed.

some beads on my string have fallen off and some have been added and i record the dropping and the stacking of glass,

it’s past midnight.

and the light is much too bright in the bedroom and the capital letters are unappealing in my lazy hands and my thoughts are wooden, plasterboard, disjointed – bless,

sleep a soothing interruption to being so heavily awake.

 

 

NPC – Part 1

My legs swung forward from the hip. I was agile. I didn’t feel the familiar and expected groaning of my calves, instead I felt happily strong and capable. I flew across the landscape without tortured breath or heaviness and I felt free.

I crawled round the house in the semi-darkness, resting often from the labour. I sighed as I plugged back in.

Looking around with alert bright eyes, I clenched my fists as I looked over across the small settlement. I climbed down from my vantage point.

Shanty buildings with a shiny sheen greeted my eye. A cliché in a chequered dress swept up pointlessly outside the cartoonish inn doors. A wind passed through as if to better animate the scene for my benefit and it tousled the cliché’s hair and gently parted the doors to the saloon. A ridiculous tumble weed crept just past her feet and she looked up to give me an empty smile.

I looked around to see if any other characters populated the area. There were none, so I walked my ridiculous cowboy walk over to the chequered caricature. Before she or I could speak I unwillingly tipped my ridiculous hat.

The sun beat down on my dirty face and it was the first time I’d felt truly uncomfortable there, as I prepared myself for speech. I wished her a good afternoon without incident and she gave me a “Howdy stranger, welcome to The Slanted Gran” in return. The name of the place appeared in my view and I felt an endorphin boost as if I’d achieved something, simply by “discovering” this new territory. Her mouth shaped the words so distinctly, with such purpose. Her eyes remained dim. She smiled at me blankly while I chose what to say.

She didn’t seem to notice I was a woman in typically masculine attire, despite the apparent time period, she didn’t seem to notice a lot. She just goofily grinned at me, her windswept hair moving in unnatural, lagging fragments.

Citizen of the Created world

I use the colours I want, if I want to use mud I will,

If I want to use the rain, I will

I use the fog for the smog, for the clouds

I use the moss, the scum off the pond,

I use salt water for the tears I collect off the crests of the waves,

I use ground up shells and lilies,

I use pollen – golden dust,

I use the rusted flakes off my old bike,

I use soot for your spite,

I use the light for the mighty way I dealt with it,

Forget-me-not sky,

Stone road,

Bone-chalk makes willow trees

Open plain – gap

Panes of glass shattered,

I make the water and it’s movement,

It pushes me through the pages to an empty one,

I’ll paint this together with my love, one day.

I’ll bring life here,

To this clearing.

I’ll realise I’m back to the world – a beautiful rock, of which I am a part.

Camera eye

Sometimes I see other people’s faces on their profile pic here and I feel a little, not jealous, exactly, but like I want to put my picture up so people can see me,

Why is that?

I’m not sure.

I think it gives such a nice personal touch, and as a reader, and a consumer of other people’s words – I enjoy putting a face to a poem.

Watching someone perform a poem can be really moving, it can be great and I’d love to have the confidence to do such a thing.

However, how would I grasp on to my anonymity then?

I know what I’ve written and published. I know every poem and I imagine that sometime Auntie Margaret might see it or someone who doesn’t particularly like me maybe, may get them up to have a nice laugh.

“Jason, have a look at this. She’s talking about masturbation again- silly cow, what a dirty fingerer.

What makes people like that? Is she an exhibitionist or something?

That must be why she never leaves the house, eh.”

“Huh huh huh – you are funny Janice, I’m glad I married you. You do make a good quip. Now come and sit on me thumb.”

Hahaha – see, how am I supposed to write my poems and look you in the camera eye?

I could just stop being vulgar and disgusting.

Nah.