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.

ugh.

delete yourself from the internet

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

oh l'amore

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

colours

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 clichés, under the gaze of an
owl. clutching my crooked, crimson heart.

intense

bodies

separated by noses, this is the closest i can get
to you without osmosis. we fall asleep eye to eye.

on the day they killed the terrorist, ten years
of history sealed itself in a body bag. unaware,
under the glow of the laptop i looked up at you
and cried, feeling the weights of time lift.

fifth july two thousand and nine

just found this. i can't remember writing this poem, but it happened. sometimes i forget that it happened, but i remembered last week when i was applying for a job and saw his name. asshole. i've been learning a lot in manchester, i realise.

necessary

yesterday you defriended me on facebook

for writing on my blog that you had ‘obvious intentions’,

forgetting the way i protested as you moved your hand

between my thighs.

i gave up trying

to explain that i didn’t know you

as you positioned me in the darkness,

and thought only of next morning’s bus ride home.

scientology poem

now come up to present time

those words, spoken in a tone
i'm told is forty, was enough.
a positive postulate with
no counter-thought
anticipated or expected.
designed to give perspective,
a Serenity of Beingness.

i opened the book and
read its inscription, from
the girl who promised
to love you forever
and felt nothing.

life revision

moving in

there’s a picture of a corner shop printed
on the tiles in the kitchen, boasting linen and
fresh produce from centuries ago. i sweep
coffee granules from the counter, lift twin
steaming cups to the bedroom. the floorboards
creak and groan. all my stuff’s laid out; clothes
piled in a new wardrobe, big enough to hide in.
curtains and bed sheets clash like dogs and cats.

i said goodbye but kept my keys. like i was never
really leaving, made plans for curry and cocktails
so i could still be that ghost. floating from room to
room and calling each one home. anonymity at large.
i’ve a list of broken postcodes on my phone
reminding me where to go. each door is left ajar.

sticky limbed and silent at 2AM, i sweep the covers
from my shoulders. we try to sleep, in this strange
hotel hell with someone else’s heating bill. empty
mugs and boxes have piled up. there’s a special
spot for baggage in a house where people speak

too loud. i’ll cry about it when the lights are out,

but tomorrow - we’ll explore this town.

i love this woman

"I could count the things I didn't do yesterday that I should have done. I could count the things I should do today that I'm not going to do. I'm never going to accomplish anything; that's perfectly clear to me. I'm never going to be famous. My name will never be writ large on the roster of Those Who Do Things. I don't do anything. Not one single thing. I used to bite my nails, but I don't even do that anymore. I don't amount to the powder to blow me to hell. I've turned out to be nothing but a bit of flotsam. Flotsam and leave 'em - that's me from now on. Oh, it's all terrible. "

- Dorothy Parker, The Little Hours

cats-on-wye

man, i'd forgotten how much i like reading books

so i'll write a poem instead

the fifth tuesday

minutes before the movie ends, the candle burns

out like clockwork. i think of numbers, firsts

and lasts. we’re a mess of legs and interlocking

fingers as you shift to kiss my neck. it’s dark.

in the house you found me, the hollow beneath

your shoulder is a quarry. i can feel all the bones

below your clothes but still i grab your jumper

to bring you closer. waiting to wake up with you.

you’re asleep. i’m on the doorstep, freezing.

‘fresh air’ is a fumbled excuse for making poetry

from these moments. in-jokes. weeks ago you

were unknown, but time moves faster here.

most things are a mystery, like a stranger laughing in

a silent house. i could explain this in sentences. verbs.

words mapping us with coffee dates and late nights,

but i won’t. i’ve got cigarettes to waste with you.

why, happy twenty eleven

digging up flowers

I.

he bought me tulips, their yellow beaks

barely open. the days are still dark. with

idle hearts and busy hands we get by, typing

through the nine-to-five and meeting later

to moan about the day. we pick indian

confectionary, sickly sweet your sticky

fingers brush my cheek. under sheets

we invent music, kingdoms, speaking

in a new language of whispered confidences.

II.

something is lost in the lights of the sign.

reflected, the casino’s spaghetti letters

ripple beyond recognition when i ask you

‘what do people do when they go out?’

your hands mime along the canalside,

shrugging. pieces of us are missing.

later, buzzing from each empty dial tone,

my fingers scrape the screen like a spade

digging silently into the cold ground (as if

to dig up flowers). the silt-water vase

goes unnoticed.

III.

the ground sighs and opens, giving in

to new shoots. bent is the shape we make,

cupping coffee mugs and leaning over tables,

a tempo beat by frustrated fingers never still,

i've not seen him since tuesday, and you say:

'every bargain bucket bouquet eventually wilts'.

you were wise then.