I’d skip registration
and catch the 535 into town,
slapping into a dusty seat I would sit
staring at mother’s force feeding the morning
bottle and old couples supporting
one another down the isle.
I’d walk through the street, past building society’s
packed with pension grubbers, dolites
and mortgage scrabblers; coffee palaces
brimming with comfy jeans snuggled
into war torn leather, supporting double-shot
skinny de-caf frappuccino with sprinkles,
doubling up on false conversation.
I step up through the path
across redemption paving,
in through the archway
and sit in the the pew.
I’d watch old birds peck at dirty pages,
while the collared chap
dusts the ripped
oak beams, eyes praying for conversation.
This is your God now, shallow
and deafeningly silent.
I bought one one of your necklaces
and paid in gold, frankincense and myrrh:
It’s buried somewhere I think, gulls
probably squawk above it.
Before my mind reaches that
state of pure dreamland
I imagine snowy peaks.
The blood rushing through my ears,
the wind in my hair and the coolness
of my sheets; the gaining frost against my toes.
I listen for the falling of flakes
crispen and almost silent through
measured breath above my duvet.
My head pokes from
the pit I’ve dug for myself and as I slowly
descend I feel the cooling rush of
pressure against my neck, spitting, I gain
my bearings. I’m upside down.
Snowed in with power and reports
and lights outside seem brighter,
LED interrupting the edge of the glacier.
Quickening my rush, I notice wolves,
gliding, fleas against white fur
momentarily hidden behind undecorated conifers.
Swiftly moving, dragging me with them until
day breaks and I find myself, warm and alone
camping before another glacial night.
We all sat cross-legged in the lounge
watching smatterings of purples
and blues and gold against
the back-drop of the all seeing eye
Some of us cried as the weight
of the past 365 days left our bodies
slapping the thought of things
can only get better.
Stoic and wishing a fucking
malevolent New Year
I watch the sloppy Auld Lang Syne
and baleful glances between boyfriends of girlfriends and girlfriends of girlfriends:
Amicable smiles and sweaty palms,
Soaking through mittens, foreheads covered
with prickling mohair.
I’ll probably wish I’m somewhere else next year but again I’ll be here cross-legged
It’s hard to place the feeling of popping words onto page, watching the dirty lexis splash onto the screen. We can’t hold pens any more, fingers stretch and bind to paint pixels, they’ve unfurled after hundreds and hundreds of years. We’ve changed and now it’s even harder to find a connection to your favourite author, now that we can’t imagine the weighty strain of actually. Putting. Ink. To. Paper. Or the sweat of an unblemished bastard of a notepad. They’re all handily in one place, typed and never scrawled;