April 30, 2010

Patricia 201025

~ A writing task that grew... briefly. And then was promptly forgotten about. It's not creative, i'm just re-telling facts that are a little too close to home. Names and locations haven't been changed. I'm lazy.

Another poem. I'm sick of this already. Actually, i'm not sure if it's the poems, or the fact that i'm sat here eating honey in the dead of night.

Patricia 201025

At the asylum,

Bricks and mortar are

Our great divide

The shadow in the teapot

Sneers back at me from bitter tannins

“pour out the tea”

Pour out your sins with a lump of sugar

To sweeten.

I tried to write,

To explain why I was sorry

And ashamed.

But it wasn’t my fault-

When you replaced your ‘beautiful Patsy’

With the beautiful game

And we used the children as a

Go-between

I knew we were strangers

Just sharing a bed.

I only ever liked you when you were drunk,

When gin became your cologne

And your smell lingered on our bedsheets-

Remember? Egyptian cotton, top of the range.

When you left,

I covered them with snaking lines of flowers and vines

To make a tablecloth

For afternoon tea.

When the children faded,

And you hid my pills in a packet of Marlboro

To stop me climbing the walls,

You found me in the basement

Scaling the floor.

They said you drank to drown your sorrows,

But you almost drowned me too.

Now the ink won’t stop bleeding,

However loud I scream.

The paper deafens me,

And I know it wouldn’t cover the distance.

Porchester Road to

Pym Street.

A few miles,

A gulf.

The words would arrive stale.

In time, I’ll pour it all out

On warm, soft parchment

Smelling of gin and cheap fags.

On your veins, on your eyes, on your hands,

On your skin.

On skin.

Writing on skin.

aston hall


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    30 Apr 2010, 08:26


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