04-03-18 #3

No comment
No comment
No thank you
Speak to my secretary
I’m sure I have said all I have to say on the matter

I won’t give them even a scrap of it,
That darkness belongs to me and I won’t let go of it no matter what they come at me with
Sacred and locked up, only I get to feed it
And I am sure that it is best that way

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List the places you liked to hide as a child

Mostly under the covers, an obvious place
Alongside ridiculously oversized cuddlies
They all had names
One was a long flat dog with long flat ears that lay alongside me on my top bunk
Can’t remember what he was called
We did all sorts under the covers, when we were small
Met friends
Told stories
Mostly to scare each other
Discussed what bodies we had
Enrolled in thousands of careers and areas of expertise
Solved the world’s problems
Conspired on how to ignore our grown-ups’ flaws

26-11-17 #2

She came to me on roller blades. In her audition, I wondered if anyone else was as blinded as I was. I fetched her coffee for several weeks, collecting her grateful flashed grins and stowing them in my jacket, next to my chest. There was always a second, at least, for her to look at me before someone called for her attention again. Everything was always moving, but she knew how to pause. “Where’s yours?” she said once, at some time in the morning that you only share with foxes and a crew you won’t know in six months. Later, we drag the dregs in order to stay in each other’s company, suspending the moment, steam rising between us, a smoke signal in the middle of the American diner. We walk quickly against the cold, quietly buzzing, boots clopping in a way that means we don’t have to say it. I show her where mine is at some time of the night that I now only share with her.

25-11-17

I think about what kind of gift I would give her if I dared. An image comes into my mind of a glossy paperback with a rough stick wedged through it. Not placed inside but stuck through the cover and the pages, piercing them, almost sewn in like thread, right across the middle in a vertical line. Impossible, the inexplicable violence of it completely at odds with what it means about us, her, my feelings towards her, and yet it feels like the only right answer. Earthy, and all that mothers. Who’s to answer for our such wild notions? I picture her taking it from me, looking at it seriously, and at me, eyes asking, This Is For Me, From You, This Is The Answer? I almost nod, she almost reciprocates, taking the book. The air between us presses like a vacuum, compressing us into a still scene, each part of my intention crumbled like charcoal and dried into paint. She does not touch the stick, but we both feel it as if it were caught through our bodies. We are both here, but are we ready?

The Lost Thing

She could have lost it on purpose, of course. That’s what he liked to remind her. It was a possibility. Well, she would prove him wrong, and never find the damn thing. Someone else would have to find it for her, because she had already checked everywhere, and exhausted all the possibilities she could imagine. The answer was external, it had to be, she huffed. She was clearly the victim of some mean, contained conspiracy, designed to teach her a lesson. That was not unheard of. That was a possibility, she aired. The suggestion seemed to bounce off his arrogance-coated ear and crack dully on the kitchen tiles.