thoughts scatter like marbles
across a cool slate floor
caught in contours
and contusions
picked up and warmed
trailed like lazy hands
from the edge of a boat
the half-wet feel
of touched glass
oiled like eyeballs
what sights
from the eyrie
floating high
surrounded by marbles
and thoughts
scatter-smashed
lost in depths
unleashed, unknown
Photo: Claire Doble
men who are afraid of me
like you,
because I yelled
unexpectedly
or the ones I seduced
too easily
scared I’ll leave
or withdraw regard
my need
seared by wit
can’t forgive
or forget
that spell
he feels
unspecified annoyed
can’t tell
why
a woman tall
and loud and hoyden
is just
too much
a burden
when you’re built to fight or fuck
coward men
need soft chides
with love
and shimmer
not a simmer
from
the lash of
her storm’s
bad weather
messing all your
ruffled feathers
bound in tradition
that’s conditioned
you’re blind
your man eyes
can’t see
so, so sooo sorry
not sorry me
Photo by Jennifer Marquez on Unsplash
bought my house on stolen land
hate the sound of neighbours’ fan
heart half here, half overseas
not sure how to feel pleased
hard to be the one who sees
both sides
it’s balance?
or unease
trying to dive in and believe
life is good, but girlfriend, please
the world’s a mess
people suck
the cars, the dogs, the tat, the trucks
if only we could find some ease
never me, the malcontent
hands up, surrender, fie resentment
stepping through a faded door
shoes off
eye prize
to future shores
Photo by Yaopey Yong on Unsplash
I lived in addiction
on the brink
clawed myself back
to a safe haircut
and admin
until
I lost myself
like
ocean weed in the sea?
somewhere
in the
midst of
competing priorities
some days
it’s a grey fog
oh come on
it’s just a
job, job, job
Oh, I was soaring over
the headland once
a kestrel
redgold edged
against blue
now I’m
smashing against
the wrong side of right
searching for
whatthefuck knows who
Photo by Michael van Gorkum on Unsplash
sliding down the mountain
of the second half of life
like a cartoon cat
legs akimbo
tryna stave off the fall
I grab branches on the way
pause and look around
to find they’re just a
cut-price version of
something I knew
a few years ago
it only goes one way
and hey
maybe the memory
flays
scramble into those
rosy lenses
blink and squint
back up Olympus
wishing
we were still the goddesses
of our day
Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash
it roars in my head when it’s quiet
otherwise
low-level vibes through the walls
of my room
can’t tell if it’s real or a trick
an ear-frequency
of tinnea perhaps
everything smells old
and I’m so tired of sitting with
the best way I know
to self-harm without blood
by running all over things
with the mind
to leave
no visible wound
late at night I feel
crazy?
plan bold things to say
but in the day
just murmur
nice girl, nice, girl, nice girl,
no offence,
like
I always do anyway
while I watch me
fucking up
in the nicest possible way
a child
with a picture inside
that comes out
all shit and nothing like
do you know
that devastation, desperation
utterly impossible
to replicate
the moment of realisation
so much later
and the life
I built
in that far city
failed
a farce, uncoordinated dance
in the dark
reaping the sour seeds sown
grown mundane weeds
and from outside
nothing
shows
might start again
or pick up
where I left
the stove on?
where o where’s that
heat
gone
art sparks inspire me
but
letting life pass by me
hardly seeing poetry
anymore
winter afternoons
so bright
and empty
rolling, scrolling, hating that void
inside
trapped and looking, desperate couching
crouching, louching
afraid a little bit
to put a toe
above the parapet
what if
sandpaper grates
on dry skin
forgotten how
to do this now
chafe against
imagination
engulfed by
failure
of everything
Image: Claire Doble
a church as a burden
administrative expectation
the artistic expression
queasy admiration
for the ancient
flesh
ghost
book
drone of sermon
abstract stained-glass
wrinkles on forehead
should all feel
more important
light a candle
run a finger
over too-new
wood veneer
the space
hollow
and the lack
suits you
yearning for
beyond-bored
not sure
the
spirit self’s
here
is all
Photo by Luke Paris on Unsplash
what can I tell you
about
swift-moving morning-mineral water
cold and clean
when the world pauses
insects scream
the trees watch
ancient and serene
above a sandy bottle-green
river bed
so pure
dimpled surface like
a music-box cylinder
our arms the combs
in tune
her hair in curls
at her neck
my feet kick
like a child’s
below
in the depths
so clear it looks near
tearing the blue
of our kids’ licked-lenses
off our eyes
so
the ungoggled
colours slant sepia
in a heartbeat
like blood, like 80s photographs
the tint
of old leaves
oh
how can I explain
the magic of that
scene
Photo by Irene Aguilera Blanco on Unsplash
gotta be addicted somehow
to love or painkillers
to pain or lovekillers
substances substantial
stuff
need more of it
must declutter
tracking my macros
on the app
tells me
my hrv is wildly
ordinary
excessive exercise
(and podcasts)
the only way
to quiet
racing thoughts
thoughts of racing
and getting a pb
fuel anxiety
anxiety is fuel
to keep showing up
show up and keep to
the program
progress not perfection
perfection in constant
progress,
cultivate
aesthetic athletic
movement
maintain
motivation
love
and pain
an addict understands
the drive the desire
motivation, smitten
beholden to addiction, begotten
be gotta, be, gotta,
gotta be
Spoken version of this poem here:
https://on.soundcloud.com/grfyu
Photo by afiq fatah on Unsplash
clairevetica 