Continuing: Bring in the Books / Bottles / Fire

So the strange creative renaissance continues. It isn't quite as manic is it was at the beginning of the year, which is good because I'm sure I would have exhausted myself. I am still writing and painting, but I also feel like I have the mental energy for other things - which is great, because... well, I'm an adult and have to do other stuff than play with paper, pens, paints and canvases in the dark.

For example I now work full time for an energy company. Which is... well it has pros and cons, like anything. I have more money! I am doing interesting things at work, and work with amazing people. But also it takes up a lot of my brain ... parts of my brain that crave something a little less mundane, a little more poem-y.

Speaking of which! I've written quite a few since I last posted... so here are three that I like:



Bring in the books

I told you to bring the books inside,
to put them in their places on the shelves
that line the living room, like badges of knowledge -
I told you to bring them in, and now
they are wet, and dirty, their covers unreadable,
their pages wrinkled and altered into
a metaphor for ageing or consumerism.

I watched Maria die today.

Oh, we knew it was coming, and
she knew it was coming, (in some moments),
but you should have heard the wracking sounds
her daughters made. I’m not callous, but you hear
enough people grieving and it starts to sound
like laughter.

I told you to bring the books inside,
now see look at this? My favourite collection -
and you can barely make out the words, or tell
which page was weary from dog-ears and thumbing.
I told you to bring them in, and now
they are dying, and I don’t know if I should bury them
or put them back on the shelf. Are they ruined
or symbolic?

The funeral is tomorrow.

Bottles

Alcohol burns at the back of my mouth
but in a way you tasted the same -
your tongue had a similar quality
in flavour, and in its ability to make me
lose my mind.

Dizzying; your words sent me spiralling,
the last of a bottle that would have
been better down the drain. But you know
I’ve never been good at walking away
when I’ve had enough.

Fire

Fire licks at my feet
but I don’t make a move.
My eyes are set on the stars,
pain a forgotten memory -
dull throb in my mind
where it was once processed.

Fire licks more insistently,
discovering my legs,
and my eyes in some primal response,
work tearfully to put out the flames.

I remember when you
discovered my body, a heat
not dissimilar to now
- white, eager, flickering -
consumed us before you
were consumed.

But that was long ago, memory
buried under layers of stale air
and wood, and dirt and grass.
Fire does its efficient work.
Smoke, its friend, gentle in its lullaby.

Battle the wind / Hospital Seating

Battle the wind 

Trying to find the solid ground,
my eyes are useless in this dark ocean,
storm is battering my senses -
every breath without water in my lungs
is a victory.

I would use a compass if I had a moment
just to use my hands, to steady the waves
still my body, and contemplate
the usefulness of the machinery
at my fingertips.

Yes I know if I speak the words
the winds will stop, no need to shout at me
I know the solid lump stuck behind my breathing
will still the ocean, but if I could just have a moment
to analyse - pause time for me, oh god
I am not prepared,
and there must be some solid ground
around here somewhere.






Hospital Seating

Sterile room, plastic chair,
black line on the wall, runs 
right through my ears. 
Eyes focussed on a speck
I wonder how long it has been there -
stench of bleach or disinfectant
burns my nostrils, like a buzzing
I can’t focus on.

I wonder, when will it start?
The 5, or the 7, or the 
whatever the fuck how many it is
stages of grieving. On a plastic chair,
waiting for them to hit me.

Will it hurt? Did it hurt?
When they opened you up, 
to find out how you’d been opened up?
Will it hurt at stage 1 when this sinks in
like our little plastic toy ships
sank into the mud pies we made 
on the back porch?
They were so mad with the mess
we made with our hands.

Maybe this is stage zero, a stage
before the stages because I can’t feel anything.
Just a plastic chair, and a buzzing 
in my nostrils, some ringing in my ears perhaps.
Words spoken with downcast eyes
clanging around my skull - 
that you didn’t make it. Make what?

We made plenty, why not this?
Stage whatever the fuck might be denial,
might be anger, might be 
I don’t know - you were the one 
who took psychology, not me.
Tell me what to feel, but only 
if you tell me it won’t hurt.

I think I’ll stay seated, thank you.
Maybe some water, thank you. 
No, there is no one you can call, thank you.