wasted

The clarity of his affection for her was wasted in the haziness of her response. He's mad on her. If he had any heels his head would have been over them weeks ago. She sits in the centre of his conscious and unconscious thought, and there she remains, waiting. There are no meaningful gestures, words spoken through dedicated promise-filled eyes. He scrambles around in the greyness of their time together, grasping for such moments, longing to record and replay them in the quasi-private space inside his head. Disappointment rolls in overhead. The greyness turns to charcoal and he stops, stock-still. Moments glide by like graceful swans. Acceptance shakes him by the hand and he sees Resignation ahead. "I love her," is the whisper from pale lips.
"I once loved her."
"Let her go."

Remember New York

Remember New York,
Last year.
Vibrant sunsets greeted us,
Rain fell mercilessly in Union Square.
Blueberry pancakes sustained us,
I forcing them down past an
Incessant lump in my throat.

You were so alive, blood-red.
That scared me.
I whose pallor spoke a thousand words

On-board thesaurus transmitting through dull eyes.
I feigned cheerfulness, enthusiasm for
Endless walking, climbing of tall buildings,
Views shielded by life in your ravenous gaze.
Your eyes held appetite enough for us both.

I tried to retain composure, to be cheery
And bright, to force unfamiliar food
Past retching intestines, cramping up with every bite.

I love you now. Months later the pain has receded and
I love you now.

birth

All words are dust. You are dust. I am dust. You see – it’s simple really, a pile of particles, nothingness. So I thought about you and these words came alive. They were birthed, some easily, naturally, some with intense pain. Some were welcomed, gladly, parties were held in their honour. Others were begrudged, I tried, guilty, to erase them, but their life was too strong and they fought their way onto the page of my book. Powerful little beggars. Once there they wouldn’t give me a damned break. They screamed at me through the green and yellow cover with the Orla Kiely print. Some were polite about it (especially the ones conceived in Café Nero on Ken High St). Others swore – filthy, abhorrent combinations of innocent letters grating through my skull. I had no choice, no option remained but to listen and ask them what to do. You see, I brought them into this book, their world, and now they were banging on about literary rights and treaties and freedom of expression and air space… I couldn’t ignore them, the cacophony was deafening, so eventually I resisted, and one by one, clause by clause, sentence by sentence, I let them out. The precious ones I allowed to be typed, finger by finger onto the screen, where white characters reverse out of black, titles in bold lime green. They are happy now, you see. Their destinies fulfilled. I’m sorry though. Had I know when I began writing about you that the words would fight their way out of the book onto the screen of public glare, I would have warned you… been more careful. But as I always say, such is life and life’s too short to invest in obscure notebooks with shiny covers.

i am sick :-(

I am stuck halfway between two foreign countries... Sickness and Health. Had I a choice, I would happily inhabit the latter, gladly hand over my passport to be stamped, allow retinas to be scanned, fingerprints recorded. Í´m almost there, had my bags checked in, boarding card issued, obligatory cup of pre-flight coffee drunk, but every time I look up the flight has been delayed... Here I remain, in no man´s land.

deadness

This dead feeling inside me feels like a fold of muscle, which has been denied oxygen, starved of life and medicine. It hurts, enough to never quite let me forget its presence. I open the fold, reach inside the grieving flesh and place a pile of the dead sinew into outstretched palms. The owner of the hands is unsure what to do with the paling matter now dripping through fingers... There's no understanding, so the palms turn away, slide the pain onto the tarmac and wipe hands on crisp azure denim. The two trunks of blueness walk away, and I remain, insides pouring out from the dead place.

Chess chastised

I’m perched at a table in a café. The location is unimportant – you can imagine the scene. You’ve probably been there. It’s one of those buildings with a mezzanine floor, half hanging off the wall, fulfilling its peculiar destiny of providing a few extra tables, and luckily for me, a perfect vantage point from which to observe the busyness beneath. As I climbed up the stairs, eyeing up a small table with two chairs near the edge of the mezzanine, I had seen two men playing chess. I’m immediately reminded of Central Park on a warm summer’s evening, where old men play giant chess making the most of the cool air and the fading evening light. It’s not that warm here yet, I’m still wearing socks in bed, (though poor circulation runs in my family).

Once I’m seated in the chair, bike helmet ensconced in my lap, I look down towards the hub of movement and laughter and see smoke floating upwards to meet my face. I study the chess players… slowly they begin to hold a quiet fascination for me. They have what appears to be a cloth board filling most of the table and real wooden pieces. They look serious, a wooden timing clock frames the edge of the table precariously resting on its edge. The guy with his back to me is holding a small wooden piece in his hands, twisting it around in concentration. They move quickly, hitting the gold buttons on the timer without moving their gaze from the game. They don’t speak, it seems, but there’s an obvious rapport – a respect perhaps – between them. One man, facing me, is old, about 70 I’d say, though these days it’s getting harder to tell. He’s completely bald and wears gold Raybans with brown tinted lenses. He wouldn’t look out of place on a used car lot in the East End. His partner is younger (I can’t tell exactly as I can’t see his face from where I’m sitting), black and well-dressed in a blue shirt and dark grey suit jacket. I wonder how they met and if they have anything in common apart from the movement of carved wood on the chequered board.
---
I return to my newspaper and read about nothingness and debt and stabbings and blandness and ranting and the foreign secretary and trade and a lowcost airline going bust and I realise I’m afraid of the game ending in case they leave. I feel safe whilst they are playing out their Friday evening in the café. As for me, there’s no game in front of me, obscuring my vision, taking my attention, just cheap paper and coloured ink.

words

Words are powerful, yet they are dust. They mean everything and nothing. Binaries pervade. Writers write what other people think. The words don’t need anything from you, not even a reaction. They aren’t me, nor are they you.

Forever - Always - Everywhere

Remember truth,
She sits quietly, forever, always, everywhere, involved.
Remember her,
Not in half-measures, stories engineered with convenient falsity.
Remember truth,
And see love, friendship, honour and trust grow.
Remember her
With words meant with love, not mere self-protection.
Remember truth,
Welcome her quietly, forever, always, everywhere, involved.

Dark green ink

The pen in my hand is my entertainment. Creamy coloured sketchbook paper and dark green ink. The pen in my hand is my entertainment, a very small window into my soul, perhaps not even a window, more like a crack of light sneaking under a door polluting the ebony night. It’s now that I leave you. It’s unfair, I know, I’ve begun a story and you’re hungry for the end, intrigue has tickled your imagination and you’re slowly falling into the letters on the page, they’ve wrapped themselves around your thoughts. I’m sorry. I can’t be your muse, not today, not here.

Untitled

A friend told me recently that he tries not to spend too much time at his parents’ house because he finds it depressing. I agreed, out of gut reaction, and for a moment we shared a thin corridor in conscious thought. There’s a pause and we move on, chit-chatting about matters more pressing. On the tube on the way home, I sieve the day’s conversation through my mind, deciding what I deem profound, or funny, or beautiful enough to retain, the rest is headed for obscurity. I ponder his earlier statement and question why I agreed so easily… I sit for two stops, newspaper in hand going unread, and let my thoughts trickle through my consciousness. My parents love each other. They have friends and dinners out. Hobbies and foreign holidays. They eat five portions of fruit and vegetables a day and three bottles of red a week. They have no debts and a car each.;They love my sister and I like we’re newborn. So, I conclude at Gloucester Road, what’s so depressing about that?

Impact

You saw me,
And smiled.
I caught
Your gaze, and
Our lives
Collied -
For a moment.
Mine was moving
Faster.
The impact slammed
Into my chest.
You, stock-still
Were quieter.
Our carriages
Didn't quite
Fit together.
Not yet.
Not this time. And
We part, graciously
And smooth.
I look down and see
Flecks of your paintwork
Gracing my facade.
I raise my head, and
You are gone.
I pause, silently,
And walk on,
Into the day.