confessions are self-serving

Tag: imagery

Milk Run

The car entered the lot
moving slowly, its weight
worked at the loose stones,
tonnes of steel
composed by engineers
now near scrap,
something to smirk at,
headlights clouded with cataracts,
muzzle after our own image,
its dog wet nose
nudging into the parking spot
like a bitch’s crotch.

A boy of maybe three
looked on
adorned in nappy,
innocent chest fat and bare,
dark skin sheened sloe blue
by the moon’s eye,
rubber nipple
under pink tongue.


I wake to a shoal of empty beer bottles-
scale-less green fish sitting in summer romance
along my window-sill
sunk deep in a familiar chair, patient
as time
the open window-

offered on its shoulders
is clipped chatter
and car keys clapping about pockets-
urgency as usual lacing the school run,
the pop and suck of a trunk-
the heady crunch of crushed stone
that signifies flight
out of here
the place home
to my two onion halves
sitting surly and morose
in robes of unravelling cling-wrap
steeped in stagnant thoughts-
who will be the first

to go


The fine hairs that trace her temple
have snatched the weak radiance
from up above, like a school of shattered
pearls in tune with a perfect
static motion.
She sprawls
over three of the sofa’s seven seats,
the cold is sharp
and the room seems bounteous
beyond its limits,
like the walls are ready
and willing to be wiped away,
and in the gloom
Morning crouches
in the furthest corner
weaning herself off of Night
one moment at a time.


He’s close enough to sink
into the swirling galaxies
and worlds of her pores, close
enough to struggle
in the whirlpool and torrents of hair
fanned in ceremony
upon the grass.
Flowers of a rose hue
grow quietly out of themselves,
each petal like a written word
spoken confidently aloud
and there can never be silence.
The wind anxiously rattles on
it speaks of scalpels
of drills
and machines of war
words which patter
harmless as hail
against a yawning deafness
born when their finger tips first touched.


One less face at a leaving do,
two fewer eyes to blithely scan
the epigram ‘you’ll be missed’
later, the helium’s drawn into the lungs for kicks
the question rises: ‘what makes a balloon a balloon?’
this collapsed lung winking on the carpet
seems almost seedy without its gas.

Still, over the green sea you rose again,
fingertips dusted with done day’s beef monsters,
smiling like an advert against the odds
in the dripping dark of that place,
your flat half pint silhouetted on the windowsill
left like a legacy
to times gone by.


Go gently forward, these doors move for you;
don’t rush. Your presence in that air-lock;
that two-and-a-half feet of empty space; you own,
enjoy it.

That swoosh- swift, elegant, mechanical-
moves without prejudice, the glass polished and impartial;
the double panes bore out and in, ancient; unrevealing,
reflecting dim bulbs

indoors; and outside- a shy moon refracted, shattered by imperfection
in the glass. Endless feet away a woman rushes in the rain,
jacket stretched from her shoulders, the echo of her footfalls
cracking, gnashing skywards-

the ushering warmth of that space; a hug, a home-cooked meal
and breath on your neck, softness against your heaving gut,
a simple sentence, perhaps “It’s okay”,
perhaps not.

And too soon you’re in, enveloped completely, blinking,
nervous as a foal, smiling weakly, waiting
as if for your name to be called; bad news to be told.
Manage one last

chance look over your shoulder, but already the rain,
and all things dark seem a shadow of a shadow,
the perplexed ghost of yourself blocking
the fate of the woman

kept alive in those short moments of memory;
running, always running, in the rain.


I get up to take a piss
glancing haphazardly at my suitcase
leaning forlornly against the wall
the colour of all walls
in characterless houses
The bathroom is very small
and my piss echoes
the stream of splashing toxins
can be heard from the hall
to which I return
I walk back to the other room
and again, gaze at my suitcase
now accusingly, and with some intent-
My suitcase doesn’t stare back at me
but merely leans against the cream wall
as easy as a greaser in a fifties flick
watching the honeys float on
and commenting on the hottest auto-mobiles that pass
I imagine this hot sticky street in nondescript America
born out of my ignorance and popular culture
as the light fades and the shadow of my case
lengthens like a yawn


Momentarily my boots
met the night sky so
I kicked the moon with everything I had
I waded through the stars as
chemicals crashed around my brain like buckshot
my eyes like two rips
in a dinner dress

Jesus has a monopoly on spread arms
it’s true that if you saw me now
my fingers limp as the cobwebs
of careless spiders
falling from the back of a boat at three
you would think of Him

An agonising rate

Everything is falling apart
at an agonising rate.

Just the other day I heard
a girl screaming
silently drowning in that dive
of early morning slate sky;
her eyes grey and bored,
valiantly still chewing gum
that the flavour had fled long ago.


Pockets of clovers riddle this lawn
like bullet holes in a church wall
once we were gibbons
picking at fleas
but we are sure now
that the leaves grow in threes

It’s been a long time
since I let the petals of a daisy
dictate my feelings;
but I can’t deny
that the buttercup’s word
still holds true

Behind this lawn
the house ticks over,
it creaks and groans
as if to clear its throat
of candle wax
the old boiler, hidden,
is its brass heart
that poor giant copper working thing
will never see outside