Category Archives: Prose

Thursday morning in the garden

Her faux fur drapes across her shoulders
Atop a bra made from dense black lace
Matching her long faded lipstick
Her legs dangle like water droplets
As she sits on his lap
Both of them pinch their wine glasses like tiny teacups
The content spilling as the talk together
A story of misadventure from the night before
They swear in unison
Throwing f’s and c’s
She laughs at the catastrophe
It catches roughly in her throat
She swills her red wine before gulping
Hanging loosely between matchstick fingers
She inhales an overly long menthol cigarette
Something about her eyes seems scared
Something about her pasty white skin seems off
She tries to talk and coughs again
She smokes and drinks to push the words away
She laughs instead
His legs shift beneath her all-bone bottom
She jiggles around
Seemingly unperturbed by the move
Keeping straight back stance
As he adjusts upon the old style garden chair
A hand across her back
Morning sun in his squinty eyes
His dirty hair upon her shoulder
She drinks again
Smacks her lips
And inhales

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This Is Your Job

Take your tongue honey
And squash it up
Inside your mouth
Don’t let the words come out.
Just read the script
The way you should
Have those butterflies,
So obvious in your quaking hands,
Suffocate on the dioxide
Because no one has time
For anything else
But your handbagging
Pretty smile
And manicure nails

Know your place sweetheart
And just read the words we wrote
True or not
Say yes
Sir

My titles

I don’t want to be a rural library

Full of expected titles

Thrillers with predicted deaths

And echoed romances

A hero atrophied by his own ego

Loving a sugary woman with closed lips

Chapters of long gazes and held breaths

A history book finishing at 1984

And incorrect African geography

 

I want to be the tiny bookstore

With a blue front door

Only found by a strange set of wooden stairs

I want second hand titles

No one has read since 1972

A little slip of paper between pages 48 and 49

A pressed ticket to a Bowie concert

In the front

And a receipt for three months rent

In the back

 

I want to be a secret

By The Side Of The Road

“Naw Baby, ” he says with a smirk.
“Did you forget your meds?”
Taking off a wedding ring
He puts it on the faded dashboard.

I touch my wrist
Where my heart beats rapidly.
“Kicking on like hummingbird,” I tell him.
“You dead then? You’ve got them numb cheeks.”

“What’s that mean?” When he talks,
He hisses out his ‘s’ sounds
Like a stuttering snake. He’s fiddling with his zipper now.

“It means your face is falling like a dead man’s.”

“When’ve you ever seen a dead man?”
He laughs because he doesn’t know a damn thing.

“Lookin at one right now.”
Before he can do a thing
I push a fork in his eye.
While he screams,
Hands sliding,
Grabbing at the bloodied weapon
I unlock all the doors of the car
And run
With his wallet, three cards and a fist full of cash.

Mama’ll be so proud.

 

 

Fucking Miserable

You know what I’ve realised?
We’re all miserable.
Cathy, three doors down with the spotty cheeks
And loud, obnoxious children –
Miserable.
And Beth, covering herself up while walking home
From another late night class
Gripping the wine bottle like an inhaler –
Miserable.
Nicholas, the guy with the fruit chin and
Cauliflower ears who smells like soup on a good day –
Miserable.
And Mike, who spits out poetry like its God’s gift
To the unpublished kingdom –
Miserable.
But he owns it.
We all do.
In between fucking
And writing it down in blogs and vlogs and Facebook posts
Twisted up in cocktail pictures on Instagram
And faceless ponies on our quick fix Snapchat
We are all fucking miserable.
Why?
Because we were told we could achieve anything.
So when we get to anywhere and we realise it isn’t anything,
We consider the things that may have led us some place
More productive,
More successful,
More desirable.
Because no one likes a man
In sweatpants, eating cornflakes
On a second hand loveseat,
Watching re-runs of Golden Girls
On a Tuesday afternoon

Except maybe…
Me
Because baby,
I’m there too.