Saturday, 25 February 2012

Nichts


I see you trying to recall,
but I always remember,
how time was on your side and
never bothered to point out mine.
The niche it abandoned me to carve
with nothing but my breath became
a world obese with silence,
gorged on emptiness.

When I am gone, or just
even less there than normal,
and all that I could have been
is yet even further reduced
to the touch of a shadow,
or the sound of light;
what breeze will walk you home,
what empty gesture say goodnight?

Plus One


A hipster couple, probably longterm
(if not it feels like it to both of them),
browse a market in impossible jeans.
They shimmy from one stall to the next
with excruciatingly practiced grins, but
it's the way she nibbles her little fingernails
and how he holds the back of his neck
that give them both away.

He doesn't like the way she scowls at his friends
or how she makes him wear "found" clothing,
and how every new thing she introduces him to
he has done too many times before.

She can't stand how much he thinks
about everything that isn't her and how
he doesn't drop her name in every sentence
on the rare occassion he's let off the leash.

Being seen together rather than alone
is exactly what makes them work,
even though they ignore the signs
that they've put up on their own walls
like how quickly words become prison cells
and naked bodies turn into burning bridges
or that time does not heal all wounds
it just replaces them with new ones.

Namenloser


The whale teeth prison bars of
upturned shopping trolleys give way
to the clip art factory rooves
of vandalised check-out stations.

From somewhere within a thicket
of fallen I-beams, voices beg for me
to take my items across a shingle beach
of soggy cigarettes and broken glass.

Cloudbursts bring a liquid light
like gouts of mercurial napalm
through holes made in the ceiling
by some tantrum-throwing god.

Shadow-snakes lurk in gurgling freezers,
emerging only to crawl amongst the
twisted roots of trees slurping at
the edges of a broth of rotting meat.

Monday, 13 February 2012

-x-


Although I curse the very day
I first heard your name upon my lips,
nothing else that I could ever say
would make me feel so blessed.

Sunday, 5 February 2012

Routine

The kettle murmers under its breath
and the toaster hides insults with its coughs;
slow handclaps drip from the tap whilst
the letterbox gossips behind your back.

Watching the light creep round the curtains
feels like celebrating birthdays for the dead,
and ironing my uniform is forging my own chains
on yet another day that will seemingly never end.

Saturday, 4 February 2012

What am I?


As the last arbiter of desperate men and
saviour of the lucky (or so they believe),
my presence inspires their greatest work
and my absence pushes them off of cliffs.

Trusted mainly by the foresaken because
they've convinced themselves to believe,
and the already glorified often pretend
I played no part in their uncanny success.

Anathema to misery and counterpoint to futility,
I'm a friend to every man but only the lonely need me;
I offer the promise of sweet whispers and
threaten you with the sound of your own tears.

More than all of the above though
I am a blessing and a curse,
the first thing to be abandoned
and the last to be unleashed.

What am I?