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.

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.

(a haiku)

everyone thinks you're contemporary but i think you're an avant-'tard

i wish there was a
postmodern theory for your
pretentious bullshit

i'm back, i think

small apples

on a lunchtime squeezed
between vinyl LPs he saw
them together and said she
looked dour, with a frown
that would taste sour
like small apples,
puckered and brown.

comforted by the concern
of his angry words -
“i could have killed him”
made moralities blur, as
i practised my sneer
in the rear view mirror
thinking how nice it would be
to soften in the sun.