Who’s the boss?

I

once sat in your lap

dragged my fingers across your face

hooked a thumb on your lip

then left

you

alone in the dark

 

I

insist

that you don’t drink in the morning

or go out at night

 

I

demand that

your bow your body to mine, yet

remain

a pillar I can lean against

 

There’s a question about

Singularity

and duplicity

and our pieces that fit or fall apart

 

“The one who cares the least in a relationship has all the power.”

 

From the outside that looks like you

and I’m the one standing

with a hole in my chest

 

But you forbade me to play games with anyone else

I felt guilty, and pleased

“There’s more ways to kill a cat than choking him with cream”

(said Rudyard Kipling)

 

I

bend to the system

You’re a subjective anarchist

reflecting pluralities of meaning

offering alternative options

 

I bow to the Prime Minister

even though I don’t like him

 

 

On having a boyfriend who writes poetry too

I’ve started narcissistically seeing

myself

in everything you do

maybe just my

imagination

maybe

true

 

It’s become almost impossible

for us to write things that aren’t somehow

about each other, or for each other, or just about me because

I’m always wondering

what you might read

when you read that particular turn of phrase

 

I used to

look in the mirror and see me

so familiar I am reduced to

the nouns of hair and eyes and nose and mouth

Now I look and see

what you might write about my face

 

I am raw material

the face, the lips, the words,

I think about them before I say them

about how you might edit them

and put them back in my mouth

 

So I guess you could say

that it’s some sort of muse thing

or maybe it’s some sort of sneaky thing

where I am stealthily slipping words from your pocket

before you get a chance to

write them

 

or maybe you could say

that

it’s co-authorship

and we both write this,

our
life, our

collaborative work

 

 

Positive surprises

My father doesn’t like surprises
We tried to throw him
a fiftieth birthday
He found out and picked a fight
with me and mum and Aunty Prue
in front of everyone

I tried to tell him it was a positive thing
What do I want with parties?
he said
I’m half a century old
and not much to show for it
Do you want to drink to that?

We drank to that
Quite a lot, actually
So much so that my cousin’s friend Dave
started to look quite nice, really
and Dave and I
celebrated half a century together

Funny that Dave and Dad
said pretty much the same thing
when I arrived eight months later
with round belly proud
Yup
Fathers really don’t like surprises

2am

2am’s not quite

3am, when you start making noises

about having to sleep

I have to get up in a few hours

why are we still talking, anyway?

2am’s not 1am either

when you’re still almost coherent

cognisant, expressing your thoughts well

because you want them to think well of you

At 2am we realise

we don’t really know each other

But the logistics of leaving

and the wine, and the time

makes it easy for me to stay

And I want to talk to you, laying

hands entwined, breath in the dark

I want to know

what you think about religion

and ghosts

and love

At 2am you can lose reason and restraint

and caution

Amongst the words falling I feel your mouth

forming slow ideas

about sex and tattoos and the possibility of this all actually meaning something

It’s darkest at 2am

I can’t see your face

I  lie and listen to your voice

speaking poetry

that you won’t remember in the morning

One day left

One day isn’t much
to do everything you ever wanted to do
You can’t
travel the world in one day
walk Machu Picchu
see the pyramids
dance naked in the rain in Sri Lanka
stroke a lion
drink a beer in an Irish pub
You can’t
write a novel
learn the guitar
finally finish your degree
or become fluent in French
You can’t even, probably
return home one last time
to tell your parents
you know they did their best

Fortunately, it doesn’t take
one day
to say the things that really matter
to the person who really does
and I

won’t regret that

Angels

They’re just a mistype, really

because I always write angels

when I mean angles

and no matter what Da Vinci says

there’s nothing divine about maths

 

The first angel I ever saw was Michael

eating cereal with milk all over his face

I think the next one was Emma Thompson

she was a sexy angel though and I’m pretty sure they’re not really meant to be like that

 

I had a friend who said

her mother was saved by angels

who told her to stop her bike

before she rode it in front of a truck

 

And wasn’t Lucifer an angel

before he was kicked out of Heaven?

that’s hardly indicative of

angelic behaviour

 

The only angels I know personally

gaurd churches with blank stone eyes

that follow me when I walk by

and judge me for not walking in

 

So maybe they’re

 

cereal-

 

slurping

 

sexy

 

satanic

 

staring

 

saviours

 

or maybe they’re

 

just

 

a mistype

Lembas/In your absence

I’m not reading
not today
maybe not ever

But I’m nervous
for you
in the density of the cafe
your knees knock mine
your fingers clutch

your eyes dart
You’re calculating the time left
before there’s no time left

When they call for you
you’ve left the room
And I have to laugh, because
for someone who talks so much
you’re so good at creating awkward silences

Sensible

‘C’mon’ he coaxed
her into the ink, the black
water
She wasn’t bothered by
the waves lapping at her
thighs
The night sky blanket
on her shoulders, the
empty stretch of silver beach
She saw his teeth gleam
white in the moon
She. wavered.

But then
a slippery something slid past her shins
Maybe a minnow
Maybe a man. eating. shark.
She shrieked shocked
slipped back to the shallows
to watch him be swallowed
‘C’mon’ he called
‘It’s probably just seaweed’
‘Sure’ she said
‘But why risk it?’

Moth

Four small triangles

silhouetted against the outside of

my window

The light is on in the hallway

they think it is a moon

they press

their naked pale undersides

against the cold glass

their soft bellies

exposed, they wait

as though the strength of their desire

could bring them to the light

Kids

Once upon a time
When we were kids
And we felt like kids
And we thought like kids
And we could watch a puppet show on a sunny Saturday afternoon and not understand the undertone of death and what that meant because
That was so far away, and
Something for someone else to worry about
 
Once upon that time
When we were simple
And we felt simple
And we thought simple
And we enjoyed the small things like sitting in the sun on Saturday afternoon and watching a puppet show and not understanding the allegory of death, not even looking for it just
Watching the people be pulled back and forth and
Laughing with rings of fading daisies in our hair
 
Back upon this time
When time was endless
And time was simple
And we were kids
Who didn’t realise and didn’t see that the allegory was about us and that soon enough we would be the puppets
pulled on strings
On sunny Saturday
afternoons