Skip to main content

eight pm

eight pm
the district line
i'm watching all the trees go by
as the sun sets on my cheeks
sneaking into my eyes
everything is warm
and lovely
i can taste wine on my lips
and feel it in my heart
it was only a glass
or two
enjoyed over food
with friends 
now everything is rosy
sitting here quietly 
on this empty tube
it finally feels like summer
after an uncomfortably eternal june
and as i close my eyes slowly
i wonder,
if everything will be back to normal soon
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father        i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father        but  my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father        these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father         this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...
Post a Comment
Read more

i can only write when i am thinking about God

 I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust,  guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty  God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me,  most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God
Post a Comment
Read more

crisis of faith

  and when i meet god   i will ask him why he punished me on earth by denying me the pleasure of being known by anyone other than him intentionally, innately, irrevocably known in a way i could have remained silent forever   whilst always being heard  i will ask him why the world kept spinning as i screamed and spiralled into the sins he’d laid out for me  for me to fumble in my guilt on my knees, raw from repentance and retribution who is to beg for forgiveness now? and i will apologise to my mother  for carrying her burdens in my womb  it was her first time too, on earth longing for something she’d never known  please tell me i did it right, that i made you proud  please tell me i lived how you wanted me to give birth to me again and i’ll try harder would it heal you to see me leave, or would it hurt because you never did  will i see your face one day in the mirror and touch it to feel your skin and i will ask you if you could not love...
Post a Comment
Read more