Now showingAnd we'll meet
and I'll be there in a blouse that blows slightly open
like a sentence I left incomplete a year ago
that for once...
…you didn't finish
with eyes that will
skim like stones
over a hundred yard stare
It's the appeal of those little backwater town cinemas
that used to be theatres. We'll smile but with arms folded
as we file past 'Now Showing'
feeling like neither of us ever will. We'll try to find something appropriate
but something or other will always push us back into a situation
where we're sat
in the dark
next to each other
watching a romantic interest develop for a hundred and twenty minutes. In the darkness
we're most comfortable, looking on,
as if in a world outside the universe
at how these things called humans love. Well I don't know my love
and I don't know if we'll ever be seen by anyone
on the silver screen.
Silhouettes will perform
to a dialogue we know by now. Female lead will spike up with, 'I just never k
ComfortableThe atmosphere around you
is made of armchairs,
a twilight made for picnic bears
and a sun wrapped in a corduroy smile.
Your eyes pour out coffee
from a whizzpot mind,
I coast on marshmallow rafts
to your words' finish line.
Wherever I find you
I feel like I've arrived.
I've been going through
all different types of forgetting;
an amnesiac by twenty five.
But even when I didn't know your name
I still knew who you were,
you're the special darkness under my eyes,
that connection to something
that makes me feel alive.
As you talk, as you listen, couched
behind my eyes,
is the question, 'how can
be such a cat stretch of beauty
when it's done such horrid things to me?'
The last time I saw you, you said
I just seemed so tired,
I should get some rest. I guess without you around I
I don't think I've slept right
my entire life
BubblesWe sit in a café, in the bodies of two autumn aged women, our hair collecting fiery tints like leaves as time blows irreversibly past us. Our bodies overflow onto the spare chairs like unfinished, sloppy dough, bursting haphazardly through an insufficient bag. I stare at the table in our silence, where crumbs of fleeting pleasure lie motionless, scattered across notches and scratches. Recall engraving given name with mischief and pride onto an exam desk. Now there are as many coffee stained rings at the tables we sit at as we have had rings on our fingers. Connections all made with stale milk, that just became unpalatable, and had to be poured away.
I look up at her. No wonder I can't talk to you. You're repulsive. Now we don't say anything to each other. Just avert our seeping eyes and avoid the other's like blue dodgeball. I'd grab a newspaper to lend occupation to the tones of failure but, in all honesty, I want a husband to fill that role next to me. To watch a world other t
My first nightmareI still remember my first nightmare.
It's nothing, Sarah, go back to bed. And sleep.
And every nightmare after that.
When I shook, with a blind death panic that used my own hands to grip me, she told me to get to bed. Turned the light off. So at least to her, I wasn't shaking any more.
I saw skeletons come alive and wield death at the ends of spears, and I knew no one would help me.
Twenty years, and...every time I felt myself become a skeleton, hunting myself with the power of death, I closed my eyes, to tell my child brain that eyes don't just fall out of sockets.
Under my breath, under onslaught, I cursed.
I hate you, mother.
You never held me.
You never cared.
All you cared about was yourself.
Twenty years, and...she looked me in the eyes for the first time without flinching.
I'm scared, Sarah. I'm dying.
Her words couched in clinical smelling pillows and a sense of inevitability.
Do you know how many times I've felt like I was dying, moth
What more do you want'Sorry. I lied. It didn't go well at all.'
'Oh?' his head slipped to the side, as if it was a switch to activate his sympathetic tone. 'Oh little kitten! Sit down. Tell me about it.'
She drifted vaguely through the flat and slumped down next to the sofa, heavier than her own body. His presence glided through the air like a cloud invisibly tied to her. She stared forward and felt his hands on her shoulders begin a massage. He was just hands to her, as her eyes gaped in full gulps of the magnolia wall opposite. And the fireplace. And all the little ornaments. He was just hands, emanating from a cloud, and he did not have a face, or a body, or a soul. Just hands kneading her skin in their flawlessly finished mixing bowl of a front room, folding her sentences carefully into the next movement. From her he would make something...presentable. Tolerable. Perfect.
'I thought the play was going well?'
Breath emitted from her like a lifeless, slow moving fog. 'I'm not sure if that was a li
kanpeki「かんぺき」 と いった おぼえて いる か な。
「なにも この かんぺき あって は ならない」
は あの とき に きみ の め の うしろ およいだ。
その とき の あと
この ふたり の こと わ どころか
かんぺき に なった。
ぼこご を わすれた よう に きがして いた。
きのう の よる
TouchI've been watching how
couples find each other again in public
and interlock fingers.
stand with bowed heads
and deactivated puppet bodies,
with a skin loop hand
like a hanging leash,
waiting to be dragged off by an equally lifeless owner
as if sticks are sticks
and could never make fire.
Some hands are receptacles.
Pinkys curled into pinkys
like crinkled plastic bag handles; a collective balled up tissue
collecting fluff, and dust, and hair,
like a pocket worn on the outside of an everyday coat
that it seems irrelevant, now,
to ask if you even still like. (besides,
it fits, and it's got all my junk in – a two pound coin
hidden somewhere in the lining -
and shopping is such a tiring business)
I saw a couple at the harbour.
They ached like twin drawers
in the same cabinet
of an old hotel,
that had seen a lifetime of guests and baggage.
The man looked back at his wife
with tearducts that had pearled the sea.
Their hands slid back into each other's
as the bridge lowered to perm
they're tearing me down, i find
i am a sandcastle at my foundations.
i am nothing at my foundations,
i have sand in my shoes
for that's all i am: sand
i have shovelled into sleeves and expressions.
i can make you castles but you cannot live in them;
the wall would crumble
into your hand.
becoming stuck between pages of your candlelit books
falling in and out of every fifth word...if the dark is
crashing at your door, split me into bags;
in the day the storm will be over, and you'll be safe,
but you'll find a familiar grit
the crusts of beaming
early morning toast.
walk with me on the beach one more time
we'll write a postcard to your future self
and while you work out
where to address it to
i'll fall into the ground
like my egg timer has finally run out
the sand grains then...you'll think nothing of it,
it was just from the beach
and sand is all the same