Poetry

Toxic

My lungs hunt for fresh air,

snatching in every touch of breeze they can.

But recently the freshness can’t be found.

The air is choking. Curling smoke and fumes

culminate into balls and whack themselves

into my system.

I can feel it, but no one else seems to notice.

The vapour from their own breath

comes out black.

Poetry

Symptoms

The catch in my throat

cannot decide if it’s there because I have hayfever

or because I have to wave you goodbye for now.

Same with the ache in my head

and the water at my eyes.

In one case, I’m not myself for a while.

In the other, I’m only functioning at half capacity.

The remaining half…

well, that followed you.

Poetry

Waterfalls

The pick strikes the ice and shatters the fragments

out into the air. Down they go, hearty lumps,

past my feet as I cling to the side.

 

I stretch up, pick ready, and strike again.

My chest hurts – I’m too eager, I know.

Fragments fly.

 

A routine: pick strike, ice diamonds

pick strike, ice diamonds.

Just frozen water playing rain.

 

So why am I bleeding?

Poetry

Body Chant

They’re fleshy lumps,

rounded, wobbly,

muscle showing underneath.

I’m not a doll on a stand

waiting to be turned

and scrutinized from every angle.

I have stretchmarks

mapping out every part of my life,

scars and pockmarks,

bruises, cuts, scrapes,

a papercut from last Thursday.

It carries me well,

I don’t move like a puppet

or a stiff-knee Barbie

(I always preferred rock-climbing Cindy, anyway).

I can twist, turn,

leap, smack that

sharp tongue of yours

so hard you swallow it,

read until my mind is numb.

And live.

Yes, I can certainly do that.

 

 

Poetry

Mind Games

When you think of a brain –

all those fleshy, pinkish

folds, a bit like the goo

from Ghost Busters 2 –

do you ever see the star map inside?

All those electric connections

zig-zagging their way

across the galaxy

(no, not the chocolate bar,

tempting as it is).

Can you feel each little jump

from synapse to synapse,

like Mario in invincible mode?

I don’t all the time. But

sometimes I do, and I wonder

if that star map is the same as mine,

or different.

Poetry, Uncategorized

Pi inches of parchment

Unfurling the scroll, it seems

it will never end,

a list upon a list that is

stuck in my hands

for an eternity I don’t want to face.

Ticked boxes, completed tasks,

I’m winning,

then the scroll is reversed

and instead I see

how much I’m losing.

Losing, or lost? That’s

the question now.

All I need is a chance.

Just one,

and then I’ll feel like me again.

Poetry

Cardiac Arrest

The flat edge hits my nose.

Sharp. Unwanted.

Thump.

‘An evening of heart’,

the print on my face reads.

Thump.

I’m flung waist-deep into the quadrants –

which door will I choose?

Thump.

Careful! Don’t flood them,

they might burst and leak

Thump.

red wine on the prize rug.

Sweet-talk them. Coax out

Thump.

the opaque scent of mind.

Keep reaching for the string.

Thump.

Really, it’s an advert

for a radio station’s new show.

Thump.

Oh, I see.

What happens next?

Thump.

Thump thump thump.

Thump thump.

Thump.