All entries for February 2010

Some older tosh.

I’ve spent two hours and twenty five frigid minutes
counting the clouds in the frost-bitten limits
of our garden. December has brought icy saints
of Christian name through the gate, flakes of paint
dancing in a momentary blizzard over my head
to settle on the crisp remnants of Father’s dead

gardening efforts, the whole of summer wasted,
replanting and reseeding whilst Mother tasted
June culinary creations that we scoffed and never
thanked her for. Today I tolerate the weather,
though my nose is sore and I’m sure his train
has been delayed... The gate swings and I regain

my - bearded - brother, home from his poky room,
(without results) in childish fear of Mother’s doom
reigning down like spiky ice flakes. He has brought
back his washing and roused me from my thoughts
to help wrap knock-off cologne and a carving knife
and then return to our bench to talk of stuff like life:

why I’d spent money “on such an impractical coat” -
Mum and Dad still echoing in his voice, a quote
inherited from them. Still, my brother, who understands
why I’m curled up in the cold and can withstand
the Winter unlike many others, Snowmen our friends
during the Christmas holidays, with absolutely no end

to the argument of who got to put the carrot nose
into the fast melting face. He criticizes my clothes,
has a problem with the age and height of the boy I like,
tells me about his new plans to buy a motorbike,
admires my music taste. I probe him about sex, beer,
pasta and sleep, his replies well away from the ears

of an even more probing Mother. We soon go
inside to our festively decked home, even though
neither of us has noticed the cold. I’m pleased,
that he still demands an advent calendar and is teased
by Mum and Dad, who try not to smile at the beguiled
face, and home, that has recovered it’s missing child.

: 17 Feb 2010 18:00 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Granny Groves' Annual Fall

There are some certainties in this world:
Granny Groves’ annual Yuletide timing,
For 3am stumbles (cardigan wrestling, hurled
To the floor by a lilac number, the lining

Catching on her wedding ring.) You will
Guarantee she was dressing for the wrong
Christian holiday, the calendar stuck in April,
And be sure she stayed there all night long,

Determined not to tug the EMERGENCY cord
And cause kerfuffle and fuss “just for her sake”,
My many Uncles cursing loudly on the ward,
“We’re paying good money for you to make

A bloody fuss!” You can put money on Dad’s
Uncharacteristic tuts down the phone,
His urban habits making his brother mad,
“You’d really pay that much for a home!?”

Just unthinkable to any of his country kin,
Who in reality are just jealous he’s the one
That moved on, and up, (and isn’t wearing thin
On top.) There are hardly any doubts that come

Teatime, Mum will join in the tutting too,
Say something daft like “think her mind’s going...”
And life will go on. Maybe out of the blue,
A car crash on the M5, we clear dishes, unknowing

How big a difference a quick, painless phone call
To the garage, for new brakes, could have on fate.
My faith will be in Granny Groves’ annual fall,
For all other twists and turns we’ll have to wait.

: 11 Feb 2010 17:35 |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

World Viewable Entry

Oh what do you want from me?

World, look at me.

I'm crying.

: 11 Feb 2010 02:06 |  Tags: Journal |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

To be performed.

The eternal gibberish of a journal,
flaming words from the infernal,
the nocturnal colossal cohesion
of the heart and the head
the dialogue of an unmade bed.
A crooked hospital of prose,
this time it’s critical,
the physical deems,
the dry season of writer’s block
is over.
Let the Monsoon season of monologue fall,
penning the reasons,
the shuddering possibilities
the fragility of meaning,
the versatility of language,
the natural ability,
of the heart’s rhythmic throb, the iambic pentameter of life.

I took              my time      and soon     I found     the beat.

Beaten like a rabid dog,
mouth dripping with egg yolk,
Frothy yellow poison,
gripping my tongue,
paralysis of lungs
and I pant the words
the glorious dictionary of my silent bones,
words I have not known
illuminate my mouth.

The treacle of speech
trickles down my chops
and I stop

to lick the palette clean,
I mean words like
Langoustine,
ivory,
Jekyll,
freckle,
mosquito... mahito.

Oh I am Shakespeare, I am Marlowe,
Virgil, Milton,
the leaves of unoriginality are wilting,
Paradise found in the sound of
verbal venom,
recovering the roots,
the ancestral tongue,
the orchestral swelling,
violins in my throat, each note
spelling out the Siren’s melody,
the remedy to silence
the ecstasy to tragedy,
my vocal appetite,
greedy, needy.

Poetry spews from the pit
of my wit,
Oh and this is more than platonic,
this suicidal lust of language,
it is tectonic, it moves me,
a pandemic in every vein,
my insane blood,
this spectacular vernacular
is champagne to the brain,
soup for the soul,
a campaign raging from the hole in my face.

I devour dictionaries,
their conducive misery
elusive philosophy,
re-usage,
abusive words of spite,
forever the writers fight
to stop the intrusive
toxic language of melancholy
consume their poetry.

But this is the mere eternal gibberish of a journal,
I suffer from the incomprehensible,
the never-ending,
the never-knowing,
the ongoing,
not quite flowing,
the dribbling clock,
set by Dali’s time,
scribbling,
comma upon comma upon comma,
fearing the ruthless full-stop.

: 10 Feb 2010 02:53 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Visiting the hospital.

They found you in the fountain,
completely naked, smiling at visitors
causing no harm at all but offending
with your hollow flesh and bones.

You were allowed to walk the green,
they won’t let you see the flowers again,
but I’m sure it was absolutely worth it
for the dignity of bathing yourself.

At mealtimes you season your tongue,
letting the salt sting your wounds,
and push your food around the plastic
dish, with your plastic knife and fork.

Mother stopped eating recently too,
and the launderette is closing down,
people buy their own machines now,
we can’t, not for just one plate.

In your letter you said you couldn’t taste,
but do come home when you’re better,
I’ll make dinner for the three of us
and maybe we can buy a dishwasher.

: 05 Feb 2010 15:58 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

I have a history of suicide.

I have a history of suicide
dabbling with salmonella
raw egg dripping down my chin
frothy yellow poison,
a rabid dog.

I sink my teeth into strays,
spitting out matted fur
allowing the dying animal
to maul my legs until
I eat the carcass.

: 05 Feb 2010 15:55 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Praise Poetry

It’s that 6am cigarette out a window for that morning kick
14 once more, choking with grazed-knees, inhaling that first tobacco hit
It’s over-analysing every miniscule movement or accidental slip of tongue,
Whether his new haircut is for me, to give 2 cheeks kisses or give one,
And it’s the 70p drop of coffee in a plastic cup that scolds my palms,
And Mother’s shrill voice over toast crumbs, the storm before the calm.
It’s an unopened envelope that’s not been addressed by a machine,
that glorious tearing noise, the papercut when over keen.
It’s half past 5 in the Winter when the sun is soon to rest,
Red mittens and scarves, the radiator and my unmade nest.
It’s the nap after Christmas dinner, my Dad’s snoring all year through,
It’s to stumbling home intoxicated to find the porch light is on for you.
It’s bubblewrap and camembert and car journeys at night
It’s arguing until my face goes blue even though my brother’s right,
And it’s when they thought I’d never do it, that irrepressible smile when I did,
It’s the gap-toothed, freckled face I always resented as a kid,
It’s the terrors of my past that seemed so important then,
It’s to knowing how daft I was and the phrase “Remember way back when...”

: 05 Feb 2010 15:53 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

… but I do love you.

I love you ardently, violently. I hate to love you. I love you so much I want to strangle you in an embrace. I want to suffocate you in perpetual passion, steal your breath by the fierceness of a kiss, burst your breast with the lava of my love, break your neck with my neediness, smash your skull with my sweet nothings, pull apart your arteries with adoration, scar your face with my fondness, devour your mind in devotion, tear out your hair tenderly... but I do love you.

: 05 Feb 2010 15:46 |  Tags: Creative |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Who stole my sleep!?

I am sleep deprived and hungry, thank you Rootes on bouth counts. Who stole my cheese!? Who stole my sleep!? I really can't complain too much, it is usually a drunken me being horribly inconsiderate and racous in the corridors. I know now next time. At about 4am I was sobbing for myself in bed yelling "SHUT UP!" to no avail. It was a very sorry picture.

I would like my post to come now please. It's been far too long, it really should be here by now. I have an essay to read first, something ridiculously abstract and incoherent that I won't understand and thus, will spend the duration of my seminar feeling like a total moron. I am trying, but the work is trying too. (What a witty pun... do you see now how hungry I am?)

My room has at least managed to maintain an acceptable level of clean since Sunday though, this is quite the achievement. However cynical I sound right now, I am feeling rather motivated, and my To Do List that is sat before me is progressivley getting shorter. Fabulous. Perhaps I can go out this weekend without an overwhelming sense of guilt that I should be in the library translating medieval english that I don't understand and see now relative use for in my future. Oh please do hurry up Year 2 so I can take a billion creative writing modules and leave the hell of overanalysing of book and the stubbing of my ability to read something I want to.

How do people do so many things? I can just about find enough hours in the day to sleep, eat, read the set books, complete my seminar work and eat a little more. I must devise some kind of schedule. I must go to the gym. I must eat less and nap less. I should probably begin living in the library. I really just want to curl up in my bed and write woeful poetry... time for coffee.

: 04 Feb 2010 11:25 |  Tags: Journal |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Hush fond youth

You are a baby stripped naked,
whimpering on a double bed
in the shadows of the intimate
western towers ahead.

Your clocks are set by Dali’s time,
boundless, blinking 88:88s,
blinding your writhing body
as the date dribbles away.

Hush fond youth, let the lullaby
of infancy stretch your limbs
let your language bloom,
your beautiful body, tall, slim.

And in your adolescence I will peel
your carcass from the sheets,
that merciless mattress scent
that sweaty midnight reek.

In drunken tantrums you swipe,
vomit up teeth, milk and books,
etch scornful slurs into my arms
scars that will forever stain my looks.

Hush fond youth, dance like you did
sing in that high key, sing for me
in photographs and video cassettes,
in a dizzying trance of eternity.

But you just sleep, fitfully
beneath a blanket, a mere child,
warm but bewildered when awoken
by a future you with a smile.

: 03 Feb 2010 13:28 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem