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at midnight
I find myself
in your sleeping
in your shallows
your tilt your pucker
in the creases
and the talcum
of your skin
in your depths
your flail your clasp
in your loaming
and the ripening
of your seedling limbs
Buddy
Spent all weekend taking part in a #52hrFilm challenge and made this visual poem based on a quickly penned piece of flash fiction.
Such fun and great weather!
Things that we lost
From Pittsburgh to Paris
After the sky fell
silent
we resurrected
an accordion
Oh
its cadence pauper
tar and tidal jags
a dead salve for
the redundant
shore line
it was only one
species
one birdsong
We
our kind weep
salt and scree
in time
we will birth tombs
and dance quietly
inside
Normal? Festival of the Brain
Been a pleasure to have been working alongside The Sick of the Fringe team to write Diagnoses for a number of events. Inspiring and a great writing development opportunity through the scaffolding offered by the experience and skills of a professional team.
chat
With an entitlement louder
than the posture of the young
our rehomed old boy twitches
his left eye and wills little brown
birds calling out Leylandii
to fly in through a three inch
window gap that prevents or denies
his certain death (depending on
your point of view) in the
bathroom of our top floor flat
My other half calls me cat too
but I’m unsure what he means
because conversation has
slimmed down
since we moved in together
although I have grown up
one dress size (maybe more)
so I purr into his armpit
in a gesture of submission
and talk to the walls instead
Bitten by the rainy city
Dancing in the dark she feels
the strings of her heart
interconnected
We were animals/seduced by urban nitrate
He catches his reflection in the puddles on Oxford Road. Easier to look down. He used to daydream. Used to look back too. Back to years when Da took a leave from absence and they learnt to love those pigeons. Learnt so much that just like Da he flew South. To find himself.
Desperately seeking further education/ red brick
factory skylines/ home comforts and a phone line
to mother/ three hundred long miles
Couldn’t keep the McJob. Couldn’t keep his mouth shut. Couldn’t even keep a squat in Hulme. Got scooped up by the local dogcatchers. Groomed. Rehomed. Dignity blown away in a storm of powder nights. Kick a man while he’s down, why don’t you. He rubs the recent bruising, strategic and under his ribs. He’s been a bad boy.
alive with the strobes on the ceiling
only really rising as dusk falls/ her halogen
shines on in our flawless skin/ hypnotized
For the punters only. He’s been told a punch of times. But what do they expect. Standing on the edge, of pavements, the hustle, from late till the end of the night. He’s not a bloody automaton. Got to rub something on the gums. Keep him able to sell anything gift wrapped in a Rizla. Have some fun kids. Look where it got me.
Called to the boom and the jungle/ shoe gazing
the jumping off point/ unpackaged
this is living/ forget about/ everything
alive with this beautiful feeling
Wondering if the manager of The Firkin will let him sink a dram. An exchange for stacking empties. A little pot wash too. His lilt and the tall tales remind the old man of Derry, his own. He needs a little fire on this Baltic night of frosty eyes and pork pie legs. He thinks about the lasses on the game huddled under the bridges on Whitworth Street West. Wannabe mothers the lot of them, always a kind word for the lost boys like him.
the first to unbottle this genie
A warehouse flirtation/ rough round the edges
until dawn/ we become book-ends
wear badges/with honour
He steers well clear. Always want something, women. Nearly at the nightclub door, he scours the line for the half-cut in need of a pick-yer-up or a bright light. Pockets notes, palms punters off with wraps of dash and be happy. Keeps a couple. Even the undead need to kick-back with a pipe and pretend they’re living.
ethereal
violets and auroral green
these northern dreams
