Arty Farty
http://20six.co.uk/mickey2
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poems
Moving
Seeing as they've decided to destroy my blog, and make it nigh impossible to navigate round 20six, find mates again, add a picture, and edit my profile so that it looks barely passable... I'm going to move - be it temporarily or for good - to here:
mickey2
Please do come and find me. I don't want this ludicrous new platform (which seems to place html code above basic usability) to break the community of blogs we've got going here.
m xx
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Untitled 6.
Your world is carpeted,
Warm,
With the smell of honeysuckle and safety.
Wealth seeps from the kitchen cupboards
and DVD boxsets;
I need to wash my hands.
Your world threatens a truth,
An answer,
But the silence is crushing and the room
contorts into a nightmare.
Steadily, I take gulps of wine.
Back in the café. Hot chocolate.
Hyperbolic claims.
The regret is sweet, addictive and entirely nonsensical;
Lingering in the moment like a bored housewife.
Your world is unchanged.
The promise is there, unfulfilled.
You are unreal.
We return to the hum of conversation,
But with the surface scratched, your world,
This talk, this evening -
Pointless.
My motivation legs it, and I contemplate this ruin
Dissolving in the storm,
Ready to sign off, give up and walk away.
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Untitled 5
The candle just went out.
A flashing light from outside illuminates
a fat woman's pantyline.
You are late.
Don't worry, I have a pint,
and although the foam is on a gradual descent,
my tales can wait;
my moans can wait.
Your long day at work.
And perhaps this really is perfection,
with its desperate misery.
At least there is writing amidst the lie-ins
and full English breakfasts.
Yes, the agony has been brutal
and there were times - so many times -
that the idea of collapse
seemed so tempting; the verge of permanent tears.
She is the new teenage love,
the subject of adolescent longing,
the creator of feeling.
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Shell
You hold in your hands a shell.
We can trample on it together if you like.
I am angry. My legs hurt. We have come too far.
As the pathway ahead clears, the pathway behind is engulfed in fog.
Peering desperately, I long for light, meaning, forgiveness
A message from an old friend
Everything will be all right
You will see.
You matter.
Curse this sentimental bullshit!
Your music taste is lame. Get used to it. Get used to us.
We are your idols, your friends, your companions now.
You do not matter. Get used to it. Get used to us.
Everything that is past is past, everything that is here will remain.
Your music taste is lame.
Things begin to make sense, like the looks you used to give me,
And my sensitivity is a barrier to be crushed mercilessly.
Life must be skewered out. To grow is to concede.
You have paid all the bills.
Am I a burden? I'm sorry, so sorry
So dreadfully sorry
For it all, for my part in it, for whatever you want me to be sorry for.
Awake at two or three, doing doggypaddle in thoughts
After a dinner full of saturated fats.
An epitaph, a metatextual pile of crap.
A fear of writing certain words.
A slave to everything pathetic and weedy and...
Oh yes, let us smash this shell. Me first!
When it is destroyed, fragmented a million times over, we will hurl the dust into the breeze.
At last, it will dissolve into the silence.
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Untitled 4.
For the first time in however long
I sit silently, and
Stop
The familiarity of a cold snap.
Dancing rain made orange by the streetlight.
Enthralled, I can feel again, and the cheer of youth
Swamps me as I smile widely, tears collecting, this scene
Created just for me as though someone was opening a door to another world.
I am no longer alone anymore, and no longer hurried.
Life has slowed and colour has returned.
But the clock ticks:
In a few hours I will be
Surrounded
Rushed
Engulfed, drowning
In a sea of grey
The knowledge of what could be dissolving irrevocably.
I twitch in my sleep.
The things which I have seen I now can see no more.
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Untitled 3.
I draw a line under this.
I draw a line.
The whole world keeps changing.
You keep changing.
The truth, the unimaginable void, edges closer.
Perhaps if I don't eat I can control it.
We chat about programmes, about memories.
At best we touch on vague grand themes.
Englishness tethers us.
I do not know you, and you have no clue about me.
I say: "I'm losing faith. My belief in anything; it's draining away."
You sit silently.
Then –
"What are your plans for the week?"
There is a chill in the air again.
And I realise that today will repeat itself forever.
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