Monthly Archives: August 2013

Train Station Blues

Sitting in my railway station
Tapping toe
To the gentleman far aside
Playing a lonely acoustic guitar
As I thumb an ancient magazine
Awaiting tomorrow’s train
As today’s seemed to have left
Long ago.

I wait without a ticket
Just my best intentions
And the knowledge
That between 3 and 4 every afternoon
The ghost of an old man
Comes and hangs himself
From the beams on the second platform.

I pray I do not become that man
But fear I will.

As I linger for tomorrow’s train
I notice that the guitar player
Ceased his chords last week,
Leaving me to wait
With my decaying pages
And an old ghost
Translucent
In the dusty rafters.

Youth’s Archer

Steady hands reach out
To grasp the fletched arrows
Still covered in sawdust
Still green from the yew
Waiting
Whispering
She holds her quiver
Makes her stand
And with strident heels
Walks forth
To take the world
With armour
Ready
Aim
Fire

Her Unwanted Pieces

“It’s my calves,” she said,
“They aren’t defined
“And also my toes
“there’s almost half an inch between them.”
He watched her body
Answering “If you ask me
“your issue is in the ratio
“between torso and hips”
Laughing he added
“I am joking of course,
“there is nothing wrong with you
“at all
“you are utterly beautiful.”
But she was too busy measuring,
Assessing and pinching,
To hear his last remark,
And so he left her there
After a while.
She was much too preoccupied
With finding her perfection,
Whilst he was much too preoccupied
With finding love.
She didn’t notice him walk away
But the echoes of
His faceless remark
Set her to work
With blue and black lines
Marking out
Where all of her unwanted pieces
Would need to be replaced.

Poetry Hot-Line

Deep breathing
Over crackled
Phone line
“What do you smell like?”
Eager panting

“Late, long love,
Lingering red wine
And last night’s left over posies”

He inhales fast
Exhaling heavily,
Pauses,
And waits.

“That’s your minute baby
On the Poetry Hot-Line.
Please press one
To carry on.”

Colour Blind Man

I loved how your contrast was open
As closed as your book seemed
Your dark and dangerous
Pill popping
Joint dropping
Persona
Coupled with a jovial orange lawn- bowls shirt
And pink shoes
You wore them not just because you are colour blind
But for some strange
Ill-conceived notion
That your coolness was transferable.
It wasn’t.
You looked like an idiot
And I appreciate a good idiot.
But then I liked you most because of the self-medication
And the afternoons of pure pleasure
That I couldn’t get enough of.

Then the 2am switches started
And I wondered which part of you
I would end up next to at this elusive hour.
The one who yelled as he pinned my arms back
Cutting off circulation, laughing at my discomfort,
Or the one who would talk back
To the many voices in his head
Or the guy who wanted me, all of me
Hurtfully,
Immediately
Yet I still wanted him,
All of you, all of them.

Even when you said we were over
And I watched grey clouds start a saturation
That wouldn’t let up for a long, long time
I still wanted you

And when I lost control on my driveway
All bags, lipstick and purse on the ground
All mess of mind in literal puddles at my feet
With the repeated howling from chest and heart
I still wanted you

And even though you denied me eye contact
As I retrieved my things from your dark closet
When I noticed that you had cleaned and shined our room,
No, your room
I still wanted you

I was reminded that you told me to keep my things at your place
Because if I ever decided to leave you
I would have to come back and you could win me again
But when I did return you just ignored me
You’d already flushed me out
And I left
Heels hung over my wrist
Coat hangers, jackets and dresses across my arm

“You do realise I am leaving, don’t you?”
You nodded
“You know that I am never coming back right?”
You nodded
“And you’re ok with this?”
You shrugged and nodded without a word
I turned
I left

Over the following twelve months
I utilised and bled any excuse to be near you
But I never was,
I never did find you,
Because a long time ago
You chose to be alone
In your drugs
In your room
With the voices
In your head

And I could never compete with that

Stardust

I am just a poor boy
Kickin’ pennies into puddles
Out amongst the neutron stars
She is just a street sweeper
All machine, brush and vacuums
Cleaning up the remains of supernovae
We are both made up of stellar explosions
But she says that we are different
She cleans up my messes
While I make shapes in galaxies
With my copper colours
And blue still waters

Spare time changes people
Idle hands test universal limits
We have less to say
When there is important matter
To be created from stardust