A chat with the ground

I was with the skull all evening,

smirking at its cold jokes.

Our breath came out in backwards hymns

as it spoke of what death is really like.

I said to it that I wanted to shake its hand

for giving me such relief.

It replied that

one day, when it worked up the energy,

it would reach its arms out of the earth

in daisies and let me pick them.

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On the boil

Sweat gathers in palm creases,

a rhythm rocking through the core –

to and fro, to and fro –

ears are radars while brain tries to decipher and retain

new signals, drawing focus back to the now.

Unsteady. High. Low.

Slowly gathering, bore in

to hyper focus.

Steam.

Word drain

Words may leave my mouth easily when enticed

yet every one is like a hit to my health bar,

conversations a combo blast that only lands

after I think I’ve won.

Social Noise

The camera flash flashes away my sight of you,

aided by the hovering, caterwauling middle-agers,

parents of rushing children, despite their own failure

to reel in their mouths, and yet your words still

paint themselves in my mind, sponsored by your unwavering image.

The reason is the pouring of your heart, cogs, springs

and fate line into my lap so I can cradle each one

in reason and warmth, judgement free.

Alas, the world wants to block you from my ears,

so to quiet we must go, where my attention

can blanket you fully.

Dial tone

I hold one end and you hold the other,

tin cans attached by a string.

No matter how far away we are, our voices

always meet up,

taking turns to bounce off the other.

 

Our eyes may not lock together

from one day to the next,

but our thoughts, our words

will constantly be shared.

A gentleman’s hair

Fear not, dear lady,  for I do declare

that is not a rat, just a mound of hair!

 

It escaped from beneath my top hat,

and now, if you’ll excuse me, I shall be taking it back.

 

Dear sir, perhaps I may enquire

as to why you hair fell towards my fire?

 

Is it perhaps one of those fancy toupées

that gentlemen such as yourself wear to conceal their true age?

 

Why, madam, I am affronted at such an accusation,

and must inform you such finely crafted hair has nothing to do with my generation.

 

I simply seek to add more fullness to my locks,

and if that does offend, I’m afraid I care not a jot.

 

 

Oracle of Ages

The trees always smiled when I entered the forest.

I bet you think that’s

odd.

Trees can’t smile.

But they can;

look closely.

 

With their slight shimmering

of branches,

they always asked why it was so long

between

 

visits.

 

I would reply the same way each time.

‘So I may never take this peace

and solace for granted.

It is easy for moments like this

to go unappreciated

until the time we can share them

no more.’

 

Now, trees are ageless,

pensive beings,

who see much loss in their lifetimes.

Yet no matter how they try,

the fleeting, finicky

minds of humans

are quite beyond them.

 

All the council they gave was, ‘Surely

the wonder of a moment

pales beside the wonder of an age?’

Glass Walls

You’re grinning at me

and I can tell it’s real because it reaches your eyes.

We’re working together so closely that we can touch,

lean against each other if we wanted.

And yet our lips have lost the ability to form words,

to speak the way we speak

freely

when we don’t have to hide,

don’t have to pretend

that the extent of our friendship

is a few words in passing.

A pane of glass would be less of a barrier,

at least it could be broken.

Colour chart

‘You mentioned you were decorating.

What colour are you painting your walls?’

‘I think perhaps…dead salmon.’

‘I don’t think that’s a colour…more like decor gone wrong.’

‘No, it is a colour. Just like arsenic.’

‘I repeat my previous statement.’

‘Fine. How about salon drab?’

‘There’s no need to insult this establishment.’

‘I’m not insulting it. That’s the name of the colour.

There’s also savage ground, bone, churlish green, pale hound–‘

‘Okay, okay, I take your point. But are you sure

that’s a colour chart you’re reading from?’

‘Of course, I picked it up from the undertaker’s this morning.’

The Monologue

Can I touch you?

If I reach out, will I feel

your skin against my fingertips,

the loose strands of your hair

tickling my wrist?

Will your breath ebb out from your lips

in the cold air,

if you speak to me?

Are you real?

Really, truly real?

I’ve seen you so many times,

everyday, in fact,

and you always catch my gaze,

our eyes meeting

through the glass.

If I cut myself,

will you bleed too?

Don’t worry, I won’t.

I’m better now.

But I still need to know.

Tell me…please?