So

I am so bored of you
so wrecked of another
so drastically planning
my escape

riding one great wave yet tossed
so silently into the unformed sand
marking its caress with scars and purple prints
a lesson

I have two more this week:
one a gaping burn from the oven tray
another half moon sits in the crux of an arm

the second was immaculate
conceived unknowing
half smiling but too wide by half again

I have fallen
it is more real than anything so far encountered
more true than anything they give me
a part of me unlike any other

Tight

I give you too little of myself,
that much is plain.
And as you tell me for the umpteenth time
That expression is not nine tenths of the law
And that I will not be charged on account of a giddy heart,
I nod.
And smile.
Although I have every and no idea what I am agreeing with.

Now come on.
I expect you imagine things will change.
But I hold fast.
These troops won't be mustered, you see,
They'll sit in their barracks playing Gin.
Not venturing a foot into new territory,
In hiding from an inevitable defeat.
And yes it is, and whether you are or are not, it will be.

amalgamation

There are parts of you that take me back
And see me stand in those shoes again
To taste the ice poured from the lips
Of him, or him, and him

There is some heat in me, darling
My left breast chokes and splutters
The little engine that couldn't
Exhales the pressure, a tear assumes the position

I see so much of them in you
Where once warmth burst forth
Now Cheshire smiles, tip of the hat, sex in the eyes
Now damaged, now cold, thou art, your heart.

Weird Dreams Part I

The sun is rising , the smell of summer wafts as the heat conducts itself most tirelessly./ Of heat upon decking of blinding white plastic, of suncream and salt and sand and spice.

The po-faced one says "you will have to throw them from here," and here, we do./ Silks and satins balooning like jellyfish from great heights.

"and now you had better wash them, see as Martha does" although we don't know why/ but out step we on our pretty-little toes to save us from the sun-beat boards

from the dock with a yard of wood stirring, we gather our clothes on the sea-bed/ a circular rug breaks free and has to be recovered, some horrid beast in raggedy reds and blues

I had rather it would leave. Quite how this is getting anything clean no one dares ask/ but we mangle and we place the clothes upon ourselves and we walk to the rehearsal.

There are many faces, I walk alone in procession, bearing gifts, catching eyes. /That one there, I foiled her plan. She was to have made a fool of me. Was it me?

Or was it the stern-faced one who barked? No matter. No matter./ Still she scowls and is gone, into a sea of android women with moon faces.

The booth, the group, is waiting. I scurry and take my place amongst their chatter./ We drink, throwing our heads back lewdly, as the pearls are placed and the coal-dust lines our eyes.

Something is placed around my neck, I lean forward to have it clasped but I am jolted back/ The sudden silence of the room deafens. Begging now, to be let loose, but I am strung pearls.

I can't breathe. No really, I can't breathe. And I don't know if I am quite dreaming./ In front of the crowds she drags me, limp, releasing me in a room, to the side.

Let off, I stab the wide, blank face behind. The one who tried to make a fool has succeeded/ and is sitting straight, her spectacles resting upon a sliver of a nose.

"I'm suing you for GBH" I croak in a voice which is not mine and run into the lobby./ "Why didn't you stop her?" I rasp to a chorus of shrugs.

The sensible mistress, for I assume that is her, steps forward/ "You see dear girl, noone likes you, we just don't like you"

The crowd murmurs in accession, giggling churlishly in places./I cry.

I wake bolt upright, my heart thumps beneath my breast and my throat pains me.

In dire need of excitement

'when it rains, it pours'
except this time it didn't
against my better wishes
the roof didn't fall through
the rain didn't dampen my duvet
but the bed was covered in hail
which was some small consolation

I am bound
face down, a pillow of pine.

blinded, I am not meant to see, but
through the very corner of my eye
I stare at the flickering,
the legacy of the draft through the window
where the candles have basked and faltered
and left such hollows and ridges for me

for others.
how many have eyed this scene?