Some draft poems from 2018 that I found recently. It’s always fun to stumble across writing from the past and reflect on what still resonates vs. what sounds like it’s written by somebody else.
sometimes I feel like I should just settle already for a place, person or version of myself. I could have a son or daughter. I think I’d like that, living a quiet life at the edge of the city like my mother did, does. Other times, the four-legged dreams inside me yearn to break free, run across the rocky terrain of the unknown, fill my lungs with flammable potential with every quickening breath, let life burn bright as my heart beat rises, until I am panting art and sweating fire, leave expectations in the ashes, the becoming, rather than taming, of the beast.
today I went to the physio and she told me that the pain in my back was real. how relieved I was for her to touch the knot between my shoulder blades and say “oof” to know it wasn’t all in my head as she taped me up and suggested sticking needles in my body (even though that thought petrified me). What would have been worse is if she told me there was nothing wrong and at all and that all that pain I felt was normal. Maybe if I can start going to the physio, I will also be able to go see a doctor about my brain. Let them scan it for wildflowers and weeds, so the garden of mind is once again one I am not afraid to visit, walk through barefoot and carefree.
I know this isn’t a popularity contest (but it also sort of is right)?
some people have more facebook friends than I have followers and I get more likes on Instagram on a quick photo slapped over by valencia than I ever do on a poem I fiddle with for days and I wonder if I amjust not good enough?
I’ve been reading bukowski and he says you shouldn’t write unless it is practically bursting from your soul and I have never felt like that. My words do not flow like streams into a crashing waterfall, my words do not fall like rain into the sea. They do not burn like forest fire or pierce like bullets. They splitter and spatter like water in a pan full of bubbling oil. They chug along like an old train on a rusty railroad. A stuttering of the mind, a dearth of brightness, as if my head is submerged in a vat of ink and when I try to lift myself up to breathe I cover the world in mess and not art.
Maybe I am not a vessel for grand works meant to split the earth and revolutionise minds of my generation but it has been my public diary, a respite for bad days and that at least is worth something to me.
She visits me in warm sepia dreams. Leaves a blanket of patchwork memories and make believe, how I wish to curl up into her wicked mirage and fall back asleep. Instead I fold up her name gently and tuck it between pillow and unkissed cheek.
If I was more wistful novella than young woman I would want to be read on a beach. Her approximation would appear around chapter three. On the last page we would be holding hands remembering when we painted each other on sky-coloured fabric with rainbow threads, all these possessive inky syllables in a state of fragile permanence until the storyline snaps, pages slip out of hand and the gossiping waves set this stolen and romanticised piece of her free.
Nobody mourns the loss of us, not my unsuspecting muse or the ocean breeze. The blurred and crumpled title reads a crush or otherwise tragedy untold by and for me.
the air is sharp and still. the water, calm until doppleganger clouds break character, giggling, as trees lean over the river and shake their bits dry. meandering ducks split the horizon and I realise that heaven is just mud and fish but do not mind as daylight cracks overhead and a passing bird I do not recognise pierces the sky with a war cry. soon, poached-egg sun spills its warm, gooey center into our open mouths and stains upturned cheeks.
just like yesterday, we do not care about zigzagging between dead trees and shallow water reeds as we hold our paddles up like hungry children with giant spoons ready to devour the entire world and all of its wild in our very next breath before we do it all over, again and again.
gaia in all her grace, gathers us around her table. she feeds us with tailwind and birdsong, nostalgic singalongs and echoing rock walls. we savour every last scrap before leaving with more sophisticated palates for gratitude. nourished, the zing of woodfire conversations and charred-stars remain, inexplicable, on the tips of our tongues.
it seems like the less I do, the more tired I am and either way I am not getting any younger as I sit and wait for life to matter as much as it did back when I scribbled my name on the front cover of my very last calculus exam.
the cynical 17 year old was right. the only maths I ever do now is subtracting days by the hour, reviewing memories to the power of x. is it possible to solve this lethargy by working backwards? I am guesstimating the root of all my problems sprouted some time in the 2010s but I don’t have any of this worked out on paper as proof of concept.
I wish someone could tell me if I am passing or not as I copy everyone else by doing more, documenting more to replace actually being more – rounding up all these constructed moments (doesn’t matter of what or what even for) can’t you see that I am so close to tipping, tapping, turning point?
living life to the fullest exposure and washing out all doubts of self, believe me, things are really looking up from this low angle shot, as I lie, knowing only the blinking caret is here to stay, dancing to the tick of every minute, it hungers like an ill-fed guillotine for a slice of life, authentic style.
Instead I offer up my whole head, dust, rust and all. meditation is too much work, take it off cleanly at the nape. let it roll like tumbleweed through this empty field of nostalgia, nothingness, noise and repeat.
It’s opposite day,
and I hate those piercing eyes –
all sharpened storm clouds
soaking up soft lighting rods
as if rules did not matter here,
only you and I. Roofed under
rewinding time, spooling moments
tangle but do not tame our desire to
pull a little more breath out of each
other, we, are the disobedient children
of the night. Forgetting what was yours
and what will be mine, listen, as water
breaks outside. We are safe here,
I assure you, before I look to the skies,
send my silent prayer for this phantom
pain in chest to subside.
I have fallen down
the rabbit hole.
Lost who I am in
INFP alphabet soup, wish
upon Gemini that I’ll find
my way to Ravenclaw.
But as furry foot of luck
hops up and down of reach,
I am left wondering who
the cleaver was for.
In this food chain I have
four decades to climb, first I learn
the sizzle of rock bottom as
branded prey. Sit and riddle
for 8 hours of the day, pray
that when I led soul to slaughter
block, I did not become both
butcher and brittle breaking
Bit by bit I remember being the most
myself in a town with no history
or future to my name. No bigger smile
than when the rest of me blended into
the Cheshire light. Feast my eyes
on dazzling new sights, at night
I cocoon myself in glittering lucid lines
or in a mad hatter moment, find a new
best friend for the night.
She is broken promises
piled up like plastic takeaway
containers. The bins stink
like hypocrisy and a million
dead fish screaming silently.
Excuses stain apologetic teeth in
shades of lost crimson, I suppose
sometimes the daysblendintonight
followed by another #094183 sunrise.
As green-eyed monster sinks deeper
into orange-pink sulci, she ferments
gram after gram of misdirected
resentment in saliva before swallowing
self whole. Become this dark,
bottomless hole – name it stomach
rather than mind or soul, convince herself
she can quantify abstract problems on
scale and in mirror, feed herself lie on top of lie until it hurts to swallow.
Forget how to hunger, watch young skin stretch
from feigned indifference to
burdensome vanity as weighed
heart learns to falter faster
than it flutters. At least that is
the sous-chef’s choice of the day.
On the cusp of 22, serve up
seasoned afflictions, boiled-down
spiked with low self-esteem,
no guarantee who tomorrow will be.
don’t remember the taste
of stars so we fill ourselves
on vodka and rum. dilute
the night with bright, fizzling
expectations so we can
shoot down disappointment
in familiar tumbler glass.
watch the hours drip-tick by
as all these soft sticky souls
search for more than sallow
shadows of self in fellow
stranger’s gaze. alas, it is in
the peripheries that I remain.
how can one win without
being told how to play the game,
nothing to blame beyond birth
and poor choices after
that have led to what I became.
as drinks tip and lips slip,
I find myself floating amongst
the sea of people, sway in
humid-breathed wind and breathe
the sweatied salt-spray. hold onto the
rainbows reflected in buoyant
disco balls to remind myself that the
spectrum of colours in my veins
spills an infinite greater than the
circumference of circumstance,
mother says, worry etched into
the crevices of every syllable.
She tucks a soft prayer
behind my ear before I leave
home with an 11kg backpack
stuffed to the brim with rigid
fears and unwieldy trepidations
that dig into (but do not break)
obstinate back bone.
Head held high, my tongue weaves
fake bravado into truth-coated lies,
squeezes big talk past smiling
teeth as they chatter but do not chit
chat, keep wandering eyes on well-lit
road and itchy feet on beaten track,
never walk beyond the safety of the light. After all, aren’t all little girls taught
they must fear the night?
I lost my heart in Xi’an,
slipped it into the suitcase
of a boy I’d met three days ago
before kissing him goodbye.
Strange, how stray words tangle
and lives shaken off trajectory,
My youth was spent by simple
seaside. Every day, watching the
gentle rise and fall of predictable
tides. Whilst he grew up on the
other side of a different shore line.
I wonder if the same waves would
remind him of when he saw crimson
flow, breathed in the stench of fragile
bodies broken by the warm earth
they were buried under, all the
nameless numbers surrounded by
plaques of rubble and dust while
the sun rose behind him as if
it was just any other day.