Thursday, 29 December 2011

two poems about hating my house and loving yours

something savoury

forgive my mood, walking through wind and
rain to visit the house i used to but still do
lodge in. this house is a graveyard of
unopened letters and something savoury
squashed into the carpet, decomposing,
like something living died here.

these four corners hold my walk-in wardrobe
of dirty clothes and lost hours spent sitting at
my desk. coming back only to feed the cat
and shave my legs whilst you keep what you
want at arm's length. i'm a house guest.

something sweet

two sets of keys in my pocket, i divide the time
unequally; visiting you on weekdays and staying
until saturday. we collect bottle caps and leave
messages on the fridge. i do the washing up.
alone in someone else's house feels homely,
sinking into the sofa watching evening tv shows.

dipping hands into hot water cures my cold mood,
cooking for you in the tiny kitchen whilst two cats weave
around my legs, forgetting about going back. beneath
blankets our feet mingle, and you say something sweet
before falling into sleep. i could belong here.

Friday, 15 July 2011


delete yourself from the internet

Monday, 27 June 2011

the twentieth tuesday

twenty weeks. with eyes like sunlight I
walk the streets through town, beaming. my
head rests next to your shoulder, a tiptoed
kiss against your cheek.

in the b'n'b we laughed at our diets through
doritoes kisses and indian meals, peshwari
sickly sweet. communicating through secret
smiles forgetting they couldn't understand,
your hand hidden beneath the table.

winter swept and dusted under duvets, i am
able to see you better. in the park stretching
out under blue skies, we read books and wear
shorts below a cloudless, bright-toothed grin.
in your sunglass reflection i see myself.

twenty weeks. ending sentences with endless
kisses that make my text messages seem cross-
stitched. before love and endless adoration
found a platform, i am yours in cafes, trains
and country paths. yours in spring adventures,
holding hands and endless laughs

Wednesday, 18 May 2011

oh l'amore

i am writing a lot of shit, loved-up poetry.


you found me wretched as the night before,
with clear water and a blank aspirin pout.
and we swapped stories under the gaze of an
owl. hungover, i thought I’d like to know you.

when life before was watercolour, we're
acrylic. thick strokes and hard lines. i stick
snapfish shots to my walls. each awkward
pose is poetry, and my hand at your throat.

on grey days we make our own smudged
sketches. spread out under canvass, i'm
washed out from staring at a morning-white
ceiling, two people and one blue towel.

you're yellow, or orange. i group people by
colours and you're brighter than the others,
twin green rain coats on overlapping
schedules. i am joining the dots of each day

to make weeks, months. each tuesday
cooking in the kitchen, lingering on each
kiss. fuelled by clich├ęs, under the gaze of an
owl. clutching my crooked, crimson heart.