confessions are self-serving

Tag: simile


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.


The streets are rivers
which we navigate like short-sighted salmon,
picking an uneasy path, making slow progress-
faces rushing upwards like images in a dream;
Arabic noses, coarse beard hair,
black lipstick, a pulsing bosom
beneath a black top pulled taut,
knee length leather boots, hot salted beef
slurping on brown lips, a catch of hot grease
heavy air, fried meat, potatoes, garlic, caraway,
cardamom, sweet, sickness.
A level cut fringe dark above oriental eyes
so sincere, and prim school kids, flushes of racing green,
navy blues, schools of scuffed shoes, laces, velcro,
dainty fingers fashioning drag-like make-up,
a little arrogance in their numbers,
a little bravado in the boys, eager to prove,
nothing to lose,
an open palm, caramel, approaches,
spare change, spare change, he says
a man sitting on a flattened box in rags,
a simple sign at his feet,
a pathetic collection of coins,
one milky marble in a dark socket,
the other eye downcast, reverent,
as if in prayer.


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