Sunday, 14 October 2018

The Cottage Garden

The plums are dropping, the apricots rotting
The silky oak golden with bursting blossoms
If the apple tree loved me half as much as I loved it
Would it not give me fruit like the fig tree did?

The citrus are swelling, the magnolia smelling
The almonds are gathered and ready for shelling
If the apple tree loved me then why does it fail
When the mulberry pushes out fruit by the pail?

If I have all this fruit - then why do I care
That the apple tree hates me when I prefer pear.


It's cold, and the air is pressing against my skin, I used to love you and now I watch you and I slowly die within. I can't think of anything to tell you. I can't think of anything I could ever say. I can't think of a single reason to make you want to stay. After a while, I thought that being me was enough to have you love me, I thought that finally somebody dug me, that I could just be myself and that that would be enough. But you were gone the moment things got tough. I thought I held your heart within my hand, but you walked out of here like you never gave a damn. And all you ever talk about these days is him. It's cold, and the air is pressing against my skin.


Where is the lap on which I sat,
        turned to ash, turned to ash
And where are the feet on which you crept,
        turned to ash, burned to ash
The hands that patted me whilst I slept
The arms that caught me when I leapt
        turned to ash, turned to ash
Where is the body that birthed me
The shoulder that burped me
The voice that could soothe or hurt me
        turned to ash, burned to ash
Where are the fingers that held me
The nose that loved to smell me
Oh God, don't tell me
Turned to ash, turned to ash.

And as I read your name on that memorial wall
I can't help but wonder what any of this is for.

The Bap

Your lips are crisp and inviting. Everything about knowing you is so exciting. It's novel and it's frightening, like when the train stops and you're alighting, into a new world - it's so inspiring. The tip of your tongue tastes like lightning. I can't speak, you've got me miming, my fumbled words are all conspiring, to make you think I've been imbibing. But I haven't. I'm just shit. I'm a socially awkward, anxiety ridden tit.

The Veneer

A wall had gobbled her up. Had taken her away. A thousand bricks had crushed her and left a dark dismay across her family and friends, and their acquaintances as well. A permanent malaise that they could not dispel. Her father could be found at any time of day, floating like a fish in a Bowls Club on Orcus Way. To lose a child is a bruise that never fades, a passenger that always stays amidst your thoughts on your happiest and saddest days, or even as you wistfully look upon the haze, of a sunset shooting out its gold and orange rays, and your mind begins to play upon that scar, wondering where or who or what you are, my twinkling little star.

Her father drank those sort of thoughts away, and his friends could never assign him any blame, so they drank too, never healing, just swallowing that pain. Pissing all their money and feelings down the drain. Being comfortable and numb became their only aim, but like everything we long for in this life, it never truly came.