I’d love my 200th post
To be full of love and stuff
But it comes from a place of rage:
someone who’s had enough
of doing the thinking for others
and always bowing her head.
Well, take it back, you ****ers:
we’re not long til we’re dead.
You live in a box of 70s plastic blue,
a doting reminder of
what I quickly outgrew.
Opened, it exudes a scent of resin
that transports me back
to being eleven.
One touch of your fragrant satin
and I’m back on stage in
a pirouetting pattern.
Your robust pointes are carefully sewn,
your ribbons a symbol of our tie.
To you my love I’ve always shown.
From that first day you were moulded to me.
You are singularly mine, today,
as I was back then: size three.
The day we met, I became whole.
I wept when ballet lessons stopped.
Only the smell of you, now, helps console.
The squirrel, with its impudent tail,
scampers up the newly lush tree, showing off
as if it owns the entire garden.
The shed, with its failing structures,
leans too far into the neighbouring wood, knowing
the next door will lay into it soon.
The moss, with its fluffy yet treacherous mould,
spreads across stones like a fungus, meandering
as it pretends nonchalance, but failing.
I’m still in shock that,
of all my lovers, you –
honest to the core – were
hard to please. Made me feel less
than those you said you’d deceived.
I gave my all, I never put you out
Yet you feigned you were on
when really you were out, on that
desire to claim, on that will to bed,
your obvious needs much more than
I could bring. And yet friends ask of you: is he
the man he always was?
Or is he fumbling and stumbling?
Pretending through his down that he’s up?
As you tread from day to night-time gap, the
lack of sex and intimacy trap, the breathless
lull that leaves you stuck: you climb the stair
to meet him there, urging with some force to
leave his control behind, let some dormant force come forth and burst.
Oh that he leaves his ‘stuff’ behind, changes into
a being that seeks some life fulfilment’s
dream. No more the live-alone desolate
feeling. Can he release the guff that’s trapped in his attic?
Original poem: last four lines of Philip Larkin’s Deceptions
My mum dies.
I lose my dad again.
Doubly I cry.
Take one low self-esteem
and challenge its main themes:
stop thinking ugly duck
let those bullies self-destruct.
Change the way you mirror
to see yourself much clearer.
Chuck that tired old clutter,
keep that stuff that matters.
Take a good old look
at what keeps you so damn stuck.
Let your tongue slip down a sled,
letting go all that’s unsaid.
Create a dumping ground
to feel loved, alive and found.
The past does not return, nor do past loves.
They languish, slump, fall into ruts:
we try to recreate that first-time wow
but bypass that love, end up fisticuffs.
And so a river passes under our pain:
what part of us can bear to love again?
Much easier to blame, provoke insane.
Under the Pont Mirabeau flows the Seine.
the pert petalled chrysanthemums
lean over their vase:
a tight little offering
from someone who can’t be arsed
to think of the meaning
of supermarket flowers:
chrysanths can mean death –
theirs as well as ours
There’s a magnetic lean to the front
of the elderly, knowing they’re dying.
Will I be next, they say
as their curiosity bends in
to smell the freshly tossed earth,
circling the inevitable grave.
There’s a reticence from the heart
of the broken soul knowing it’s over.
Will I finally leave, they ask,
as they submit to one more abuse
from a partner who says they deserve it.
When will alone beat feeling lonely?
I’m trying to talk,
you look at your watch.
I want your time
but you’re far too cross.
Those lines on your forehead
show you’re far too busy
to raise your glance or
heed the neediest me.
I pluck up some puff
to express how I feel
but your eyes become glazed.
My spine loses its steel.
So what I really want to say
feels unworthy, goes unsaid.
All I want’s a shred of praise
But I flush with shame instead.
I never was, and won’t ever be
enough to be front of mind.
The words I speak to you are mute.
By dismissal I’m undermined.
So I stop showing myself out loud
The treasure is hidden deep.
It’s only my words that know the secrets
my sorry heart’s been forced to keep.
inktuition 