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.