Poetry

Wallpaper

We can wrap our bodies in as much decorative paper

as we like,

but still it will rip and tear

the more we leave it up for display.

Prodded, examined and manhandled

until it is mere tissue paper,

hanging limply from the weathered remains

of our original form,

so covered in dust and mildew

that we no longer know

who we were before we prettied

ourselves

to other people’s tastes.

Poetry

Waterworks

Rinsing my emotions down the drain

is like convincing Thor to put down his hammer.

I’ll do it

reluctantly and sometimes violently,

turning the tap on fully so that water spits

at full pressure,

thunderous as a barbaric yawp;

 

it washes away everything

before I have a chance to reconsider.

 

I’m left as the soulless husk

they want me to be,

ready for the day’s reprogramming

to begin.

Poetry

Simulacrum

I cry rainbows at night when I think no-one else is near. Flower skeletons decay even more in my mind and silhouettes of birds turn out to be no more than shaped words. Carefully chosen, trimmed to perfection like a prize bonsai tree. My wings have been clipped. I’ve been pressed against pages leaving only an imprint behind. I am not myself. I am the person someone else wants to see.

Poetry

Bright eyes and lies

A rabbit with eyes wide and bright

with the light from the car’s full beam

scampers off just as the wheels screech.

Halt.

Daffodils rise up at the pound of its paws,

followed by crocuses, tulips, hyacinths, nerines,

budding and dying just as quick. A few

fading petals and a dusting of pollen

the only trace.

Examine.

Heavy boots race up the path the rabbit has taken,

no flowers rise. No flowers bloom. No flowers die.

And the rabbit is gone, buried beneath the snow

to stay warm, away from the sprinklers

that spread summer’s mirage.

Above ground is cold, just as it always is.

Just as winter is.

Poetry

Here is a picture

Here is a picture I painted. I did it

for you. In one corner

you can see the roses I gave you

on our first date. On the other side

there is the park where we took our first stroll.

Yes, I even included

the gravestones – I knew you’d like them.

And in the distance your foot,

just visible behind the tree

where I hid you.

Poetry

That wobbling seed

I can hold your hand. I’m always here for you.

Yes, in your hour

of need

 

I’ll be watching

I’ll be waving

I’ll be waiting.

 

Let me take your hand, you know I’m here

always. For you.

That’s

 

the problem,┬áisn’t it?

You do know

it’s me

 

niggling

niggling

niggling

 

in your mind, casting those shadows

around you. Wait.

 

You think

I should be ashamed?

 

I’d say I’m rather proud of what I do.

You’d just take happiness

for granted

 

if I wasn’t here.

Poetry

Up to those eyes

In them we see

sugar and spices,

an apple pie baked full of ideas

all original.

Of course they’re original,

they made them,

enveloped them in tangy sauce

sprinkled with cinnamon

we find out is actually chilli.

Oh, and the homemade pastry?

That came from a shop.

Poetry

Fancy words for little things

We can’t simply stand around

quoting the words of long-dead playwrights

whenever our lovers’ embrace crumples

under the weight of our hesitation.

I want to speak in my own tongues,

not someone else’s. How can their thoughts

be true to what I wish to convey?

Your muchness matches my muchness.

And I hope it will

forever.

Poetry

Foward to:

I reached up towards the whispering trees to tell

of all the things I’d seen cascading upwards recently.

The distant past, stone faced, stone minded,

stone mouthed. Confronted by flat facts

that illustrate the cover of the world.

Foil lettering given to signatures on toilet paper,

topiary hedges with red painted roses

casting a dripping grin down at the green.

Light flickers behind.