Intermittent

We drift through our curved tendencies

of a relationship

One day its course veering to a familiar, safe place

where we affirm one another with our words

And the gentle gaze that lingers a question;

Does he still?

 

Other days, I am in fear of our relationship

Like the thing itself, a black haze, is out to get me until I am full of questions without answers.

My nails hurt from the pang of clutching on, I have been on the precipice for some time.

I could lay a white thick film over you, and begin again

memories fade into distant patches, but they do not disappear.

You cannot disappear

Smearing you white, removal, cutting out- no.

 

And so, I prepare myself for the light and dark curves within our relationship

The good is so sweet, so belonging, so present

Whilst the bad, is myself seeking beyond what is; the remnants of desire.

 

You are constant and my intermittent worries will cease because time yields the anew. I love you, but it will transform and I will not exist on the precipice.

And you too will see that my love was not a selfish love

I loved you in spite of suffering.

 

A beginning can occur at any point of consciousness, anew is a choice.

Choice is constant.

 

Drawings

When I see him now

without you around

you are the only one

when he hands me his drawing

that I want to tell.

When I am bestowed

with his sketch

and his words are muted by his locks of tired dirty hair

and I am thanking him

clutching his drawing as pure gift

you are the only one

that I want to tell.

Now I have another

but who can I tell?

It went into my pocket

now living like litter on my desk.

When I am next prized with

the drawings of our vagrant artist

my beguiled self will say

that I must collect them.

Keeping alive traces of me and you.

 

If I should see you one day

I will pour them onto you

because you are the only one

who’s heart will understand

the cryptic drawings of the vagrant man.

Keeping alive traces of me and you.

Nowhere Special

We found ourselves a cove

and us long-limbed lovers dove

where the walls echoed romance, hope and lies.

We eschewed a jackpot laugh

that we had claimed the lovers nest.

The chink of glasses sounded the air

the treacle of conversation roamed the room

candles swayed amongst the fluttering of words.

 

We could not be seen and nor could we see others

Were we nowhere or somewhere?

 

The waiter, an infrequent visitor

sensed our love and left

us to our delicate exchanges.

We converted the nest

moulding the pillows so that we

could be as intertwined as lovingly possible.

You gazed at me;

admiring, appreciating.

We kissed with dedication

paying homage to the lovers nest

 

This was not all, we kissed because we were the lovers

who forget where they are

and where nowhere special

becomes a paradise of its own.

Treasure

Your gold head weighs on my chest,

just above my bosom

your wheat-like freckles shimmer under the lamps glow

 

Your green eyes, slits of wet lime

that sometimes paled into silver disguise.

Amber eyelashes fanning shadows upon your cheeks

 

Your ruby heart drumming beneath

your chest of rich fur

 

Your crimson mouth; triangular but full,

interlocked perfectly with mine

their fullness adorning mine.

 

Your thin hair flopped languidly,

my hands traced their waves, tugging and curling at its irregularity.

 

Your smile, your smile, your smile

Stretched to its fullness; a wide invitation that

changed your face and in an instance,

redefined smiles beauty.

 

Your smile, a moment in time

flashed like a gift only for me.

 

Now your treasures shall float out to sea

and I shall not be there to see

who else may cherish your smile

 

as a treasure in all of its own.

Human Condition

The letter contained
many a word that was
short trafficked
via the use of
over-subscribed grammar,
showing her erratic manner.

She may have been drunk
because its whole array stunk.
The engraved exclamations
I was sure
sent her heart aimlessly fluttering.

Her eyeball comma’s
failed to disturb
for I could feel only a curb
of elated relief.

This all seemed too textbook
how our unit was shook,
now she is always drunk
but what of, I do not know,

She is too within her own
she is the mantelpiece
of one’s resurrected thought,
whilst she ferments
in her own pretence.

She is the teacher of black thought
the master of despair
but all too juxtaposing
the pupil of uncertainty.

I have a vision;
she wakes at night
slithering down her stairs
liquidizing, shaping
into venomous eel
wheeling around her wicker chairs
spying on all that is
ornamentally enormous and still.

Excuse me, she is not purposefully wilful
she is belligerently tearful
I cannot wash her clean, baptise, stabilize, categorize,
or theorize
as to how she inverted her heart
with such thorny disguise.

She is a soul with too much capacity,
ingredients that cause swelling
She is not rebelling, this is a misspelling.

I am too away with storytelling

Oh, there will be many a flower,
because you captivated,
every single one.

Thunderstorm

As she took my hand
my bedraggled coat
scurried and fanned
the land in which
would be nothing but sand.
The real life figurines
and their machines,
bowed past Mother
to only go
and shoot another.
A bare footed man
with a secret plan
led us to
what must have been a hole,
way under in decay
would only a mole lay.
Ma seemed thoughtful
contemplating a psalm,
waging its truth
tampering with its
soul.
It’s biblical legs
erecting herself from her mind,
dwindling
like old knee caps.
She did not seem to
care for any persons.
Blinded in our
hide away,
our pricked up
ears encased
an opera of death.
What is snapping?
Thunderstorms Reina,
just thunderstorms.
But I could not rest
and nor could he
as I felt a warm trickle
piping down from under his trouser leg.
I pantomimed a peg
to bite my nose,
because maybe humour
is at its most ripe
when it howls taboo.
I bid him adieu
as the soldiers and I
hid from Captain Banzai.

What was once

The finest balm for the pangs of
disappointed love,
cannot heal her.
The morose taste sunken into her kiss,
applying the besotted balm daily until
the next crack appears.
Th unwanted truth plummeting
on her lips of lies.
Like a new aroma,
she adjusted,
as his scent had departed.

On the cusp

We live in the folds of the translucent waves
coming up for air when we are in shaken despair
The crashing events of life throw us into other blue phases
where we wait for the next jar of matter to spill onto us some more blue matter.
We burst head first from the moment of thirst
at first we feel coerced
into a blind world of jumbled existence;
distance is both our history and future.
We have survived and are reinstated into an ocean of obstacles;
there are no waterlogged directions or wet stains.
Clear matter clings as cling-film,
there are patches of shape; it is all an intriguing array of distortion
I preach to the waves I have lost,
that slipped of me like a gluey encasement.
These towers above me are ghosts of the world I once knew,
they embody the thoughts I have had, representing themselves like life in the blue;
darting through their own stream of living they flourish and flail.
You are something but I don’t know what.
Life in the blue leaves its trace; droplets and puddles form a trail from inside
my tongue holds the weight of the ocean
I stretch it out and jab with curiosity.

This noise feels as if it is moving closer:
What else is to come my way?

Published Work

I have been writing for a couple of different publications, have a read. They’re good. I promise.

Wellbeing Escapes:

Article 1

Article 2

Article 3

Article 4

Article 5

Article 6

Article 7

Article 8

Article 9

Article 10

Article 11

E8 Community:

Article 1

Article 2

Article 3

POV:

‘Reg Garboteh

 

 

 

10, 037 miles

When he looks out at the composition of sky, mountain and sea, are his feet dangled or hunched against his torso? Are his eyes frantic; skidding between clouds and ripples, or are they still and calm? Thinking about his life feels as if I am looking into the vase of a hazy dream. He continues to walk and be sedated by his hopeless desire. His thoughts are soaked and he is subdued in a difference of pattern; he now has reason to have a heavier foot, for the plants to seem less green and for the sky to have a tinge of cruelty beneath its plastic yellow.

Whilst I shovel my way through the discombobulated scrap, my torrid head tries to regain balance and I find myself skidding out of line. Things are different here, I am without the sea and mountains. Things are somehow less forgiving and I have to forgive its disillusioned self.

His surroundings are sparser, they have a minimal approach. Nature is a beast in itself but like music sheets, it has its peaks and troughs of momentum. He sits at the wharf where his thoughts repeat like the steady sound of a drum, I am a relentless idea. He imagines me forming from the furthest wall of sky, slowly making my way towards him. I suddenly drown and melt with the surface of the glassy water; some thoughts are too hard to keep hold of.

I am falsely distracted by the bustle of buildings and the hustle of people, how unlucky I am. Things move so quickly, our foot prints make an incomprehensible map. The streets are doused in people who look out at life through a square. Opportunities do not happen through windows but it is a point of perspective. The city’s formation is a series of streets, until now I had never thought of streets as being a burden or barrier. The streets are relentless, they squander the space and leave no room for a view free of interruptions. To see ocean and mountain would remove this armour of mine.

He speaks to people but seldom listens, his eyes avert to inanimate objects; eyes require attention he cannot give. I speak to people, I do listen, only because I know I have to. If I cannot engage myself here, I will be lowered to the status of a rat. Cut-throat. I look at people in the eye but am aware of my somewhat disconnected state. I am always somewhere between the present and past, I am a pendulum with an imbalanced equilibrium. We continue to wait for one another. How unrealistic this all seems, this story does not feel real, I must be writing someone else’s story.