Sooner or later,
whether it's
in a doctor's surgery,
on stage
drunk
in front of people you've never met before
(and hope you'll never see again),
in a dream in which you realise
you're not only unclothed,
but late for an exam that makes no sense to you,
invigilated by your long-dead grandmother,
or on a slab
with all your organs
stuffed in jars
and... Read More
Debased, disgraced,
the taste still in my mouth
from when you made me
lick your fingers clean -
it's not an unfamiliar scene:
whispered nothings
sweet with venom
dripping onto skin
burnt with needing too much
[it's only a sin
if you don't enjoy it,
which makes me a paragon of fucking virtue].
Under you,
hanging on your every... Read More
I know at the end of the day, it's just a hole,
and half the population have one, but
who else would let you get away with
the shit I let you do to me?
Other women would have had you arrested
for some of the things that you've suggested,
not so much requested as... Read More
Final track plays out.
There's just enough time
to knock back one more drink
and think to myself "well,
it was good
while it lasted".
It ended as it had to:
in spilled beer and cigarette ends,
with the doormen's silent encouragement
for us to drink up and be gone,
to be swallowed... Read More
I know that sense of things ending. My friendships are often made with people who move around my social scene changes when people I like move away. It would be good to have that grounded sense that comes from a content stability.
After 11 months of waiting and what-ifs and maybes,
11 months of knowing you and not knowing you,
of missing someone not mine to miss,
of careful avoidance and skilled restraint,
in a borrowed spare room,
under circumstances we had not planned,
the pretence stopped,
and the clothes came off.
I loved your poem
It's funny that the minibar line in your profile says "likes 12 Angry Men". I just watched the original with Henry Fonda two days ago
I actually haven't checked out your set yet, but I promise to do that in the very near future.
A reminder what summers in this country used to be like...
the smell of spoilt fruit and veg after the market's cleared away;
sweat-stained vests, scorched lawns, sunburnt shoulders;
hosepipe bans [even though the river burst its banks in May and flooded the town];
punch-ups, anti-clamactic, on sweating pavements outside pubs at kicking-out time;
baked air on empty buses winding through quiet, odd-named villages;
the... Read More