in the funnel
of perfection
my addiction
blurs the world-
running
narrows to a
thin vibration
plucked and humming
mosquito-fine
only I can hear
what’s almost comfort
sets off
something
whispers
to my inner ear
I don’t stumble
so’s they’d see
just feel my
direction
skews
a line’s breadth
devastation-
failure-
and a child’s
unformed craving
-hovers
unbelonging
raw edge of fear
Photo: Claire Doble
he remembers
when my hair was long
a decades-old flirtation
not personal
if it ever was
with him
I remember
that pale, waxy skin
like marble
the feel
of boy-men muscles
along limbs
as I struggle
to catch slurred words
in a noisy pub
even though I’m sober now
he’s invading my space
after 25 years
of long-forgotten…
suddenly
confronted with
being seen
in a way I haven’t been
for ages
is it good or ill
to bathe
in that male gaze
again
I am, am I?
a person now
or then
how to define
myself
hard-up against that
strange
living-memory thing
it came in the night
driving and thick
a vertical virtual
wall of precipi…
tation
–
wind rumples
through the eves
crunkling the cardboard
taped to my ceiling
“spielkiste”
from the last time
–
my spiders watch
from the opposite corner
of the room
their spindly legs
like stripped
upside down
umbrellas
–
dehumidifier hums
on 80%
carpets
still feel damp
–
the rains are here again
Photo by Anna Atkins on Unsplash
Stretch marks on the ocean
silvery, tired
trying to remember I’m vast
sparkling, a
mother
fucker
more than, enough
can’t be contained, tamed
in a single glass
wine? whiskey? why?
I yearn somedays,
mostly Sundays
afternoons
for self-absorbed
oblivion
a sweat-beaded bottle might provide
those sweet lies
politician in a suit
sneakers and no tie
Modern. Woman.
leaning in
hi!
time to change
time’s are changing
it’s like
holding on to a boyfriend cause
he looks good from behind
only realise
that metaphor
means
he’s long gone
in my mind
can’t win
with an exit-man
start again
if you can
find enough
water in the ocean
to stretch across
exhaustion
make a new thing
never stop
aching
Photo: Claire Doble
more picnics mean
more broken glass
it’s not me
or any of my
friends
we wouldn’t do that
who would
stare out to sea
and ask
if the rusty anchor’s still wedged
on the island
where waves attack
shipwreck litter
you’d be stuck
with a fine these days
for that
and I heard the sailors were
all unvaccinated
in 1870
selfish pricks, I wonder
was their captain schooled
by Opus Dei?
someone who
eats roast koala
for tea
picks his teeth
with the constitution
casts icy eyes over
the cash flow of
stamp duty to
developer, it’s only the poor
who choose to buy
on flood plains
my Hilux explains
I’m OK
burning finest quality
trees in aspic
4.2 litre diesel
smash the plastic
P plates
in the car park
by the boat ramp
someone will
tidy up
for you
black water laps
against the morning shore
faint tang of petrol
in the air
it’s safe for kids
so clean
because
our land is
rich and free
Photo: Claire Doble
My thumb was her thumb
this morning
against the phone
tapping back
to a curtain-pulled room
on a corn-chip couch
where the hallway
smells like hair dye
with an undernote of
roasted veg
warmth of blankets
on a cold afternoon
watching tv
wondering what to wear
tonight
and if this is grown up
well, how
I call her up
to ask
if not then
surely, now?
Image nicked from https://fuckyeahrobertsmith.tumblr.com/post/130968493770/queen-siouxsie-sioux-and-king-robert-smith
My new poem Nightclubs in Russia and accompanying spoken-word (also by me) was published this month in the awesome Canada-based Galaxy Brain magazine.
Head over and take a look, as well as my own piece, there’s loads of fantastic content there.
Link to Nightclubs in Russia by Claire Doble
scent of Glebe
on my fingers
those big trees
around the markets
a place of magic
not always nice
patchouli peanut sauce on
overcooked rice
and you can’t get
there, that feeling
out of reach
around your neck
desire a device
compelling action
did I buy it, did I buy in, did I sell out
then worry about
paying the price
Photo: Claire Doble
remember emerald grass
and the hot sky zinging
above a field laid out
to the left of a train line
a cloth unfurled
that curls to a valley
steep-walled with bergs
feels like the bluegreen ocean
in that it’s hard to know
whether the strongest desire
is to be in it, or observe
back once again
emotions shot through with
brine-cool air from outside
the world full of birds
and vines across the window
like it’s been a hundred years
my sands are shifting
and the tides
always the same but
look at the minutiae
different every time
so how
do you justify or feel safe
always, it vibrates
buzzing with life or at
mechanical pace
like the train rattles by my place
at night, dark speedthought tangles trace
catch and drag
that undertow when sleep
is lying backwards
underwater and
looking up at the light
nowhere else to hide
and no place to return to
do, do, do, do
ideas massed like kelp piles, stinking high
how do I…
where is, why,
just write.
clairevetica 