musings from my window

you can't see the sunset from my window

nor the sunrise

it comes as no surprise

that all i get in my room is dull light,

everything feels artificial

when i switch the bulb on

that sits firmly on my ceiling

as if i'm in a hospital bed

the flickering hurts my head

and i wonder if i'm being pedantic

upset over nothing

all the time,

i watch elderly women walk their dogs from my window

slowly making their way across the grass

and listen to children screaming

late into the evening

when i close my eyes and listen to the sirens

sometimes i pretend i'm at home

my bed empty without warmth next to me

i miss it

even though i thought i wouldn't,

it's sad that i know i can't open my window

at night anymore

nor walk at one am

when my head needs to clear

so once i close the door

it's just me and these four walls

for hours,

it would be nice to see the sunrise through the window

one day

perhaps it'll make the mornings a little easier

and i'm less tempted to sleep my time away

Comments

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...

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

two foxes playing at a train station at night

rotten creatures, full of pestilence and noise run! chase the last train away the last human with it, bring your nuisance here your mischief, your trickery sovereigns of the night the earth is yours, run circles round each other leave tracks upon the floor, for the day folk to find and wonder the secrets of your tiny paws

my love

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