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Stars Stars
(or something like love)

She inhales and stubs her cigarette out in the ashtray. The one he brought back from his trip to Italy. That one that he bought to show her he loves her. The gift she didn't understand. She admires it clinically. The transparent glass edges, the blue of its centre; so much like her eyes, so he said. When she takes it in her hand it is cold, and smooth as butter. Almost silky, the way it caresses her fingers. When he gave it to her, there was a picture. She can no longer remember what it was of. It has been buried beneath cigarettes and smoke. Just as his face has been buried by time. All that is left is an outStarsin Prose

Sonnet Sequence I I

We lived on wasted time, though time was scarce.
As Summer lingered; spring was gone, and all
the trees shook off their leaves, left branches bare,
stark stumps were dotted all around by Fall.
You left me grieving in our empty home,
drove back and packed your crumpled coat and bags,
turned out the lights and made this house a tomb:
now all that's left are empty shelve and rags.
In rain and snow I walk along the fields
for Winter's come and washed the garden clean
and in the kitchen all the food's congealed.
I lie in bed and watch the world unseen.

Green leaves are edging at the window now:
is Spring come back to mend this brokSonnet Sequence Iin Poetry

Spindle Thread Spindle Thread

Apart, the nature of the times moves us,
separates the grass stalks of our beings
and sways towards us another epitaph
of eternity. He takes her by the hand
and swings her around, their bodies making an arc
travelled by time, their features contorted
into smiles; the self-deceptive grins
which frame our world.

A walk out of the garden and into the street.
Another universe is revealed, separated,
made different what was once uncut
by walls and roads. Lonely city.
You do not understand these bridges
we have carved from you, nor the aching
beat of another's heart upon your spine.
You can only react and not create,
Spindle Threadin Poetry

Your Time I.

The pool of water on the floor,
gleams, glimmers, spreading light into the room,
muting the shuttered shrieks which intrude,
chasing corners of dust into the present
from the past.

Even the doorway shakes with a renewed acceptance
of all that is life. What is it? And must we return
to this normality? A woman hovers in a chair,
back bent, knees knocking, a soldier home from a war
of the heart. And what is it about her pose
that tells us she is gone, her mind has fled,
and nothing short of a miracle can bring her back,
and everything, everything has fallen from light into shadow.

Do not shake your hand at us and laugh.
DonYour Time

Turn Back Love, when I look at you
I wish you wouldn’t return my gaze.

Your eyes have the look
of something like joy. I don’t trust them.

They burn me. Look at my wrist:
the iron slit, the yellow blister like candle wax.
You can peel it: an orange,
it sheds in strips, tug, tug, and my bones fall out
like pith. Look at my chest:
the ragged hole, like the worn patch
in a pair of jeans, badly repaired.

Your face has the look
of something like love. I don’t trust it.

Your mouth is an acid house. Open it,
see the spit that flows. Your teeth gleam,
shark teeth, inward bound.
I am caught on your icicle shine.
Cold skin hardens.Turn Back

The Car I drive.

Buildings block the sky like tetris,
trees lash out, angry as wet cats,
the grey clouds leer down on us,
accidentally pregnant, lumbering.

I drive past the places that remind me of you.

The road curves away. There is an intersection,
the traffic zip, zip, zips like a light switch.
I see only held hands, sticky with sweat,
I see the sun, a polished pound coin
to spend on our love. Your laugh,
so very quiet, and whose sound
I can never remember. A smile
hurting my cheeks. I smell
your cologne again,
a perfect smell.
But you fade
again,
I

drive again.
The wipers on the windscreen
wash away the rain that starts.
ThThe Car

The Pain of Giving Pure baby, born like Jesus,
resurrected from the grave.
Butter skin. The neighbours
squeeze your fingers, wanting
to spread you over their lawn,
sticky as jam.

Wide eyes. Your nose ticks
like the second hand of a clock.
You grow older with every sneeze.

Baby. I cannot bear to see you get taller.
Dressed in dungarees,
you waddle like an overstuffed bear.
I want to shrink you,
pin you to my wall like a moth,
dry you like a flower.

Why is every moment with you so sad?
When your college acceptance letters come,
I will burn them, every one.The Pain of Giving

Looking Back A dull numbness settles,
a feather floating,
unable to touch the ground.

In the near-brightness of an afternoon sunrise,
fingers coat themselves in blood
and lay out waiting to dry, bathers on a beach,
like newly applied polish.

Fifteen sleeping pills later
I am still not asleep. I no longer mind the darkness
or the light. There is a peace in me,
as though I have been put in the tumble dryer,
all the wetness wrung out.

I haven’t cried in a while.
I wake late, groggy and unable to remember
the moment when death transformed into unconsciousness.Looking Back

Wanted Their beaks peck.
Black feathers fall
onto the pavement, my feet
are edged by yellow-yolk claws
and beady sockets stare.

Magpies! They wish to collect me.

Take strands of my hair
to line their nests,

unpick my skin
and wear it as a cloak,

thread my veins into my bones
to make fishing rods,

use my eyeballs as bait.

Dipped into water,
I see an aqua slosh run round me.
Twigs dance, stick men, worshipping the cod.

A mouth opens. Rows of teeth
like prison bars enclose me. I am swallowed.

Warm acid like a bath. A hole is carved in my side.
Dark warmth, you vixen. Take me.

The magpies are feasting
on fish.Wanted

Ready Words Ready Words

She picks up her pen
with a desire so thick she could
choke on it. The page is a clear road,
leading somewhere, nowhere, everywhere,
carving the path to something beautiful,
to a place where bluebells rise in rows
from the ground.

There is a need in the way
words scratch themselves out, like
fingers gripping the arch of a back,
the shaking, shuddering, still
moment at the very end. There is a flow
as ink is poured, a river runs
and covers the white in its stain.

The urgency remains but the sentences
shorten, disappear. She can neither control it
nor keep it going if it chooses to stop.
It is like an ice flow: wheReady Words

Fabric in the Wind Fabric in the Wind

A coffee cup is upended
over the sink and the windows bloom:
the sun sprinkles its light
onto the umbrella of our roof.

You are ruffled, just out of bed,
and your pyjama top is falling from one shoulder.
I pull it back up, hands blistered
by the cotton and pour another mug.

We discuss the way a butterfly's wings
beat, the humming noise the refrigerator
makes at night (or possibly the fact
that it is only then we notice it),
the way the present does not exist,
only the past.

I reach out a hand for your cheek
and it catches on the fabric of the world.
Your face is a whirlpool,
the cloth twists, the coffee cuFabric in the Wind

The Brink The Brink

The hushed tremor
of a mouse running
on a man’s spine.

Open the cupboard:
tea pots and china,
and broken plastic packets hidden behind.

A hand reaches
and grasps a pole,
as though to pull the climber
over the edge.

The watery blink of a forgotten eye,
chapped lip smile,
throaty gasp. A finger dips into
the forge. The object is heated,
cherry red, expanding,

slowly, gears wind themselves
around curled toes, and the peak
approaches.

The scream of a boiling kettle.
Steam hisses. The explosion comes abruptly;
a thrown pebbled causes an avalanche.

Bodies are buried in snow.
The cold, so cold, only noticed whenThe Brink

Forgetting Forgetting

A paper screen fluttering;
baby fingers, bitten nails, empty bottles,
the smell of sex lingering,

an umber dawn rises behind the malevolent sun,

a peach swells
and falls onto the disturbed ground,
flesh spreads into the dirt
and the core rolls
away and stops.

An umbrella opens as the rain begins
and an anorak remembers
the smell of wet grass, the drip of leaves
on its back. There’s a splash
as boots break the surface of the pond.

The paper screen is hit by a Frisbee,
tearing with a sound like a scream.

Someone’s eyes glaze over. The blue skies
disappear, replaced by clouds, flowering above.

A thousand iForgetting

Going for Help Going for Help

She’s planned it. Everything.
The amount of pills: laid out in white rows,
like empty hospitals beds waiting to be filled.
The bottle rolled under her bed,
glass catching dust in its glance.

She knows the time and the procedure.
Her fingertips practice the dance,
her tongue rolls in circles, preparing for digestion.

Her hair is done up. Her makeup perfect.
She’s dressed in a ball gown and her feet
catch on her shoes. She’ll drift down
in the bath, like a sleeping statue.

She’s planned it.
The emergency phone call from the neighbours.
The ambulance and its red-roaring siren.
The rescue and theGoing for Help

The Embrace The Embrace

I know what I’m doing, when I do it this way.
She holds her tea as I hold her.
We both rock, and the rocking produces a sound,
a whimpering echo that floats away like an origami plane.
Sun tumbles into the room;
A puppy rumpling the edges of the carpet.
The cat growls from a white windowsill
and, frightened, the light fades away.

I wish I didn’t do this so well.
The sofa is a well into which we’ve fallen.
Her face splits horizontally and her tongue
flops out. The splash hits my nose like an electric shock.

There will be papers. Lawyers. A new house.
The living room is disappearing already; new inhabitaThe Embrace

This Feeling This Feeling

This feeling, this numb terror
that rises like milk in my eyes,
this jellied brain splurge from my ears
is a nosebleed from being hit in the head
by your smile.

This calm, a river made by my toenail
clippings and shaven hair,
this wood bough shelter of your arms
on my waist, this coil of rope
around my legs that draws them to your hips.
It is a new found shell on a deserted beach,
a single mote of dust from a sealed cave.

It is a rush, a new swelling
under an old healed callous.
The way I feel looking at the curve
of your eyelash as it catches
in the morning sun, it is a sunbeam
making a path across the grey
ofThis Feeling

Penny Nothing i am penny nothing
in warmhot air. like tar
i am dripping my body
into the toilet;
like earth i grow
old and alone and stagnant
under an old, lone moon
(surrounded by stars).

i am deaf
and dumb
and blind
and i see only your face
and your heart.

i am lying
with words like spiders
but my fingers are flowers,
are true.

i touch nothing
but you.

i am old
in your arms
i am new.Penny Nothing

Reaching the End Reaching the End

This is the place
beyond fairytale endings, where love is not
a burden and touch resounds
like open bells.
Peel back the covers, you are left only with us;
fully clothed; stretched out
on our backs,
hands held close by bitten fingernails.

I like running races in his hair,
the rough short ends on my skin.
His body is an ocean that I have swum
with my eyes closed. They’re an anomaly,
out of touch with our clasping skin.

He reaches out and the movie is a lost dream.
I say his name; the syllable is a call,
seeking an interwoven tongue. I think,
in the midst of it all, that when we cross this marathon’s
Reaching the End

Sonnet Sonnet For A Girl

The river runs and blooms in youth below,
the breeze stirs sappy pine upon the rocks
and on the banks I see your bare feet go,
clutched in your hands a pair of dripping socks.

The mayflies circumvent our counterparts;
wide eyed, the blue that ripples into green
and fingers stiff with berry stains and tart.
When beauty looms and shakes within the scene

I slip on weeds and grapple with my eyes
that cracks of stone have broken into caves
and almost wish for wilder sea and tides,
for mermaids’ voices sunk beneath the waves.

Their songs would seek to steal my soul, but more
they’d steal my pain; love lost,Sonnetin Poetry

Tripping into Grey Tripping into Grey

It came on me slowly. The drug seeped into my body, just one drop at a time. They had warned me, the doctors, that it could be sudden. A shock, they had said. What they hadn’t mentioned was the pain, the agonising trickle of emotion through me; the drug simply a conduit for other people’s sadness.

Another thing they hadn’t warned me about. Yes, the drug widened and developed the sensory cells in my brain to the point where I could sense what those around me were feeling. No, I hadn’t realised that I would experience it myself. A new project, they thought they had it all figured out, and in an increasinTripping into Greyin Prose

Word Worker Word Worker

A sudden absence of noise.
Like a burning man
hitting water.

Quenched, taste buds
fought back to life
and the ends of our throats broken like beaks.
We gobbled the words
thrown in,

let syllables rest on our tongues,
by the sides of our teeth.

I wallowed in sounds hard like stones,
breaking on ‘t’s and ‘n’s. You were
all about caressing
the words, coveting syllables;

softer sounds jarring our limbs
to wakefulness. Mouths collided.
The halves I held
snatched by the wind. Word Workerin Poetry

Letter to say Goodbye Hello you.

I would have addressed this formally, but I don't intend to send it. You never liked your name much anyway, not the way I said it. You left and I promised to write to you, but I never said that I'd actually post the letters. So here goes. My plan is to carve out the words in whatever colour of ink you most prefer. Green as I recall. Like grass, your mother’s eyes, like the pendant you tried to keep hidden in your desk. Can't you see? Release comes of the pen and paper and short careful strokes as the nib is softly worn away beneath my fingertips. Sending these would only hurt me: I don’t know about you. You’ve been Letter to say Goodbyein Prose

Secretive Secretive

You were rigid
when I pressed my spine into yours
and our ribs interlaced
like twining petals.
Your eyes set false shadows;
reflected in their stare, I reached
around the horizon of your shoulder
and probed doubtfully your chest
for the music. It trembled with your skin’s desire
(to communicate with mine)
but no bells tumbled to answer
within.Secretivein Poetry

Reach around, touch your spine Reach around, touch your spine

like the knobs on a cooker,
controls to a hidden system.

If I turn them,
feeling the soft-hardness of your body,
and probe the deeper recesses that lie,
will you react?
Blow steam from your
nose,
wriggle your ears,
dance your skeleton out of its flesh.
I’ll trace the lines of your ribs
like protractors fitted beneath the reach of your skin
by surgical minds, hold the edges
still so your halves fold in together.

Let me twine my fingers
in your inset controls
until I reprogram your mind to loving me.Reach around, touch your spinein Poetry

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