from one eldest daughter to another

i left my mind on crushed blue velvet

in a crack among the cushions

it stayed there whilst i slipped

onto the cold wooden floor

sinking slowly

i could no longer tell where my body ended

and the ground started anymore

glassy eyes pointing upwards

like a doll, discarded

my physical self finally departed

warm and still,

a lucid dream if you will

yet i comprehend nothing

and no longer wish to

red wine replaced my blood

my veins begin to flood and

all i can hear are the whispers in the trees

and soft breathing laying next to me

to replicate my heartbeat

the mind is a wonderful manipulator

disguised as reason

it has motherly venom

that drips and poisons

reminding me how starved my skin must be

of gentleness

and sincerity

her standards impossible to meet

we share our burdens quietly

but our minds are far away

stuck in an endless summer

burning themselves out

like old rolls of film

erasing the past, replacing the present

don't you feel content

lets read together,

go for walks in the worst possible weather

i'll fill you with lines of poetry

that were written in love and madness

just romanticise

don't let our time slip by

we can be consumed into the clouds

and stay there, for a while

just like this

i'm sure we won't be missed

our minds can keep each-other company

hidden in crushed blue velvet

going further and further into the crack

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

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...

my love

Search This Blog