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
put lips to old pain
feel it flutter and still
poison drawn, paused
these untidy
memories and broken bits of games
horror of untethered high-wires
and never good enough
lifetime’s untruths, dissembling
nervous-held handbag
run tongue over protrusions
puffed proud tissue
give it wine, buy clothes
in the body aches
pleasurepunish chafes
adorned, adored
addictions rise from secret spots
manacles like friends
again, again, again
strip away snailsmooth streaks
knife scars, sear words
seal it up
momentary grace
It’s been more than a month since my last post, argh! I’ve been working 100% and the time just slips by. It’s a rather doomy poem to return with. Inspired by an excellent podcast featuring Russell Brand and Gabor Mate on addiction and past trauma. Short version here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQwP0XRBjq4 Long version (worth it!) here: https://www.russellbrand.com/podcast/053-dr-gabor-mate-damaged-leaders-rule-addicted-world/
Photo: Ivan Bandura on Unsplash https://unsplash.com/@unstable_affliction
the nostalgia of street corners
so ordinary and familiar
little things that stack up to life
one step, step, step
day after day
years, even
and in autumn
when everything’s dying off after abundance
I weep
over a final mundane journey
ragged leaves scuffing my way
a boy outgrown/ growing up
a closing door
era’s end
and like a film, it’s golden in there
that final crack of light
glowing yellowbrick road curling
back to the recent past
even the tough times
I know. I knew, I know
how shit things were/are/were
but they’re already bathed
in the liquidamber of sealed memory
the beauty
of inaccessibility (don’t ever change!)
and what if I’m only now getting used
to accepting the seasons
and it’s all starting to make sense
and I could relax into it
just about
feel the lull of acceptance
a way life could be?
—
and I know every other fucking poet
said it already
but this is mine
Photo: Claire Doble
And I thought about what someone far away was doing
imagined
a length of yellow-white fabric with words printed on it
fluttering near a bedroom window
Someone flying long-haul in a plane through dark sky
right now, that twilight world of
stale-cold air, engine hum, the fittings’ faint rattle and the rustle
of other people
A view over the rooftops of buildings
(see the city’s ripped back sides)
Stepping alone into an early-morning kitchen
he puts on the light
feeling the unheated floor and seeing crumbs on the benchtops
makes no move to clean them away
The pattern: blush of bright pink, royal blue and orange
imprinted behind closed eyes
intersected with black, it’s a piece of clothing
that existed cheaply, wonderfully, in a previous decade
clairevetica 