Poetry

Special Offers

How much would you pay for bottled love?

Hanging up on a market stall

like fairy lights, all twinkling away

in different colours.

 

Bright pink for that first crush, that first taste of romance.

Steady indigo for familial love, overriding all those arguments that ended in slammed doors and broken crockery.

Lush, meadow green for those best friends who have stood by you for years

and will do for many more,

possibly because they now know you too well for you to let them escape.

How about that deep crimson

for a person you wish to wake up to every day, forever?

 

The vendor rattles them all enthusiastically as you walk by,

making them dance about,

shouting about special offers for previous clients,

two for the price of one,

a complete returns policy if things don’t work out.

 

She dangles a handful of free samples in your face

and you can’t help but get caught up in the wonderful scent

of love

that threatens to stitch up all those wounds

forming your heart.

 

It’s tempting.

It is.

But it’s fake.

 

Manufactured for the vulnerable,

and I know you aren’t the type to buy into it.

Poetry

Reoccurring

I’m still falling.

I see the ground rushing towards me even as it floats away.

My feet

no longer know what it is to stand on solid boundaries;

they pass through

and I am birthed out into a loop

of waking and sleeping

and waking again to find that I’m still sleeping,

and can’t escape.

 

My breath comes short

but also long,

empty lungs somehow full to bursting.

How can this be real?

How can I be real?

How can I stop myself

from fading away?

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

Upturned paint tins

Shelter; storms gather as we escape

down the grassy staircase, vines

threaten to catch our ankles.

The ground splits open on the final

step. We’re swallowed down –

or perhaps suspended – in the giant

stomach of crumbled earth.

The MC appears behind us.

‘Describe how you get your ideas.’