The screw

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

Long red fingernails slide over long held convictions
Flicking remorse and regret across the bed and out the door

Do you know what you’re doing here?

Do you think its desire?

In a game of he said, she said,
he said always wins.

Do you know what you’re doing here?

Do you think it’s a game?

Truth is a scar you can never erase
It throbs in a darkness.

You can never escape.

Do you know what you’re doing here?

Do you think it’s a sin?

Sanctimonious conviction is a dark red welt on your back
Words you said under pressure.

You can never retract.

Crass comments in public, they shame you
You hide from the light, like an-

Emu?

Your head in the sand, you think you are grand
But you know you’re not right, secrets don’t hide.

Even at night.

Do you know what you’re doing here?

Do you think about power?

The things you held onto out in the dark
Were nebulous and cold and forever apart.

You put on a suit and a tie
But you are no more than the sum of your lie

Do you know what you’re doing here?

You never owned the minds even as you played with the bodies

You can hold it forever until you are dead
But desire and power were all in your head

Yours was a moment paid for with cash
Gone in an instant, no more than a flash

Do you know what you’re doing here?

They thought different thoughts to what you think that they thought.

And now in your coffin, you’re all cold and all still
They go on singing, they dance and they laugh
While deep underground the worms eat their fill.

Do you know what you did here?

Dandelions

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

When we were growing up,
My Dad had a lot of rules
My favourite one was:

No pyjamas in the green house

On Thursdays, always Thursdays
he would get the lawn mower out
And take it for a walk.

He didn’t like the dog

He didn’t like to hurt the grass
He was thoughtful about the grass
And the dandelions

He always thought dandelions felt pain

My mother on the other hand
Was quite-people said ‘odd’
Never bought us rain coats or umbrellas

She thought of rain as a test for your eyebrows.

She wore a lot of yellow.
She said that was because
deep down inside somewhere,

She was a dandelion

And dad wouldn’t hurt the dandelions
It didn’t save her, of course
Or us, from him

I wear my pyjamas everywhere now

They are silk, expensive
I have them in every shade
except yellow

Because wearing yellow won’t save you.

Some days I come home soaking wet
Because I don’t own an umbrella or a rain coat
My eyebrows don’t work the way they should

Even now. Now.

The lawn mower sits in the shed
The dog is long since dead
The grass grows high
The dandelions die.
I visit her grave, his is far away, I never go
There are things children should never have to know.

I was never quite the same

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

I have come to tell a story
I have come to say your name
I want to tell the truth of it
I was never quite the same

They said that no one saw it
That you weren’t really hurt
But I saw your body falling
And I know you hit the dirt

I heard the endless sirens
As I was called inside
The soothing words of adults
People never really die

I saw you standing on the roof
Dark against the blue
I saw you jump off of it
I saw you falling too

I never saw you land
The fence was in the way
But I heard the men all calling
I remember plain as day

My mother said I never
I surely never did
But I know I watched you falling
When I was just a kid

I wanted just to sit here
Quiet by your grave
To say that I was sorry
To the man I couldn’t save

Its true I didn’t see it
Your body hit the ground
But I saw your body falling
And I never made a sound

I didn’t run inside
I didn’t raise the alarm
In those precious early moments
I stood there quite calm

Maybe no one would have believed me
No matter what I said
But in those precious early moments
Maybe you weren’t dead

I may have been a child
And absolved of all the blame
But I wanted you to hear it
I was never quite the same.

The Viking Housewives of Essex

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

I am not sure there is that much Viking heritage in Essex,  but sometimes the women of this county get a bit of a raw deal, so here’s to all of them. If you don’t know Essex, I’m sure there’s somewhere comparable near you.

The Viking Housewives of Essex

And why not
Our heritage is wooden boat, hallowed spear
We haunt the nail salons of the high street
In our sparkled designer gear

Our snake skin heels are poison
Our tans are blooded gold
We of the shiny teeth
Are a sight to behold

We shy away from nothing
We are brave in the face of scorn
With carefully crafted strapless sleeves
And things you’ve never worn

We are sass when its needed
Clueless when its cool
But there’s no mistake about it
You’re the one who’s fooled

We like our men quite chiselled
But it isn’t just physique
If he doesn’t have the right car
He won’t get a peek

We are quite ‘assertive’
And its true we are quite loud
But we’re Essex through and through and through
And we are bloody proud.

I don’t write like you write…

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

When I wrote my words down
I used to wonder what you’d say
Somewhere deep inside of me
I’m not very brave

If words are my passion
And poetry my voice
I have waited years and years
Without making any noise

I tried to make it happen
I wanted it to work
The words just went on and on
But none of it was verse

My work is full of half rhymes
That never quite add up
Of gaps and stunted rhythm
That never quite stand out

It has taken me a lifetime
To realise the truth
No allegory or metaphor
I don’t write like you

No flowing words of prose
No humble love of trees
My soul is not on fire
I no longer write to please

I finally found my voice
What it is I want to say
I won’t write like you write
I have turned and walked away.

The train

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

One bald man gets out of his seat
So another bald man can sit down.
They don’t speak to each other.
They don’t know each other.
The do know each other.
Its like a dance.

Every day.

That is his seat,
that is the other ones seat.
They wear similar suits in dark blue.
With a light blue shirt
And a medium blue tie and brown shoes.

I plunge myself into my seat, melting.

And what was he doing there anyway?
Half naked.
In a stripped down phone booth.
Leering at every woman,
As if each one should be grateful.
With his 90s hair.

Today of all days.
They are not grateful.
They just hurry past.
He leans on a strut that once held a pane of glass.
His best days are behind him.
His best days are behind the booth.

There is no air conditioning on this train.

He is playing a childs game
On ear phones that don’t work.
Colourful little animals jump small bridges.
Everyone can hear the arcade tinkle.
He does it deliberately.
Plays it loud.

Most days.

Plunging thumbs,
into a control panel.
It annoys everybody.
It’s a protest.
You are not allowed to watch porn on the train.

All around me the world of trains and men, I feel like a freak.

He holds his head high.
The wi-fi was a little slow this morning.
The trainers are glossy.
He really smashed that avocado
Into the whole grain toast.
A sheep in wolves clothing.

A bit yesterday.

With that beard.
More a toad resplendent in cloth.
Still a toad.
He catches himself in the window.
Looking good, looking good for a toad.

Still after all this time, I don’t belong on this train.

A little darkness

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

This is very dark, I’m not sure where it came from. We all like to think that people who have hurt us will somehow face a reckoning. I don’t think its true but the rhyme is nice.

On the edge of memory
In a place I’ve never been
I know what you did to me
Even as I dream

There will be a reckoning
A place you have to go
A memory that you try to hide
But I will always know

You will lie in agony
You will be in pain
At the edge of your memory
There will always be a stain

A spectre haunts your sleep
It haunts when you’re awake
There is nothing you can do about it
I am your mistake

You think you got away with it
You think that you are free
But in your dying hours
I know you’ll think of me

The blood that pulses through you
Will always bear my name
My pain has seared your soul
And you are not the same

We are ever connected
I am the thought in your head
The regret as you lie dying
The thing that you most dread

A sentence left unanswered
A name you never said
The one who stood on your grave
And danced when you were dead

The Gloves

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

It was late. The train was nearly empty. She didn’t notice the woman get on. She was suddenly sitting across from her, hands folded neatly in her lap. As if she wanted her to look.

She looked. The gloves. Red leather, quilted at the wrists. The police had said to call. She should. Call. Now. Where was her phone, in her bag? But hadn’t it been a man?

She had only caught a glimpse but it had been a man. She had seen through the crack in the door, heard heavy footsteps running away. It had been a man. She was sure.

Was she? Those were the gloves. Distinctive gloves. Red leather, quilted at the wrists. She should call the police. It was not possible. She could not be that wrong. Her phone was in her bag. She just had to take it out. Call. Hesitation.

She was staring at the gloves. Drawn. Drawing in her head, the scene. A crack in the door. The red gloves, pressing hard. The victim. She thought there should have been noise, there was no noise. It all happened silently. Except for the footsteps running away, great heavy footsteps. The footsteps of a man.

The woman sat there with her gloves on. Unbothered. The last of the other passengers got off the train. She sat across from the woman, staring.

Then the woman looked up. Smiled. Those gloves. She was caught staring. She looked at the woman’s shoes. Boots, out of kilter with the rest of her clothes. She looked at the arms, muscular, then the neck, stronger than she had first thought.

Her gaze drifted. Back to those gloves. It wasn’t possible. She had just caught a glimpse, through a crack in the door. She’d heard, what had she heard? What had she thought? Those gloves, so unlikely. She should call the police.

She looked at the woman, still smiling at her. Knowing. Knowing what? It was her stop. She got up. The woman followed, stood behind her. She could feel breath on her neck, a soft leather glove on her back. Panic. It can’t have been. No.

Call the police.

Hermit

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

‘I prefer recluse, it has fewer religious connotations.’ I mutter it rather than say it.

I look at the box sets strewn about the floor. I have been here for days in silent contemplation, watching them one after the other with a kind of religious zeal.

‘Hermit,’ she says again. ‘Robed in track pants and a hoodie, on a diet of crisps and beer. It begs the question, did you find that which you seek?’

‘All life is here,’ I whisper as I look at the variety of crisps flavours I have devoured in the past week.

He is gone. Taken. I cannot cope.

‘You seek enlightenment through the electronic gods, the gods of calories and fermentation. But there is only darkness here.’

She is right. The curtains remain resolutely closed.

She walks over to the window, flings open the curtains. Light floods in. I shield my eyes.

‘Enlightenment.’ she says.

I fall sobbing to the floor.

This awful mess

Posted on by tuesdaylatte

I want the words to soothe my soul.
To make it better.
To fix it all.

I want them to say something purposeful.
Sensible.
Meaningful.

I want them to fix my turmoil and confusion.
Set it out.
In a vision.

I want them to answer the questions I ask.
Finally, definitively.
To the last.

I want them to be mine when they come out of my mouth.
Composed.
Possessed.

Not this awful mess.