Malas decisiones y arrepentimiento

Tengo la suerte, la suerte de haber vivido allí

en esa isla contigo, con una red de seguridad

felicidad y comodidad que nunca tendre aquí.

Al menos me parece que la vida es así

que tomamos decisiones que a veces no son buenas

que a veces nos cuestan mucho

que nos roban de unas cosas

y que nos dejan con este gran agujero

de añoranza.

Me está ahogando dentro de su vacío

estoy sofocando debajo de mi decisión

porque te obligué a seguirme

cogí tu mano y no tuviste otro remedio

y ahora estamos, en dos lados diferentes del mundo

tú, admitiendo que nunca te querías ir

y yo, admitiendo que quizá me equivoqué

pero eso no te puedo decir.

Deberías echarme la bronca

porque me lo merezco

te decepciono

cada día que tengo estos pensamientos.

Translation

I’m lucky, lucky to have lived there

on that island with you in a bubble of security

happiness and comfort that I’ll never have here.

At least it seems that way

we make decisions that aren’t always good

that sometimes cost us dearly

that sometimes rob us of things

and that leave us with an abyss

of longing.

The emptiness is drowning me

and my decision is suffocating me

because I forced you to leave

I took your hand and you had no choice

and now here we are, on two opposite sides of the world

you, admitting you never wanted to go

and me, admitting that maybe I made a mistake

I can’t tell you that, though.

You should tell me off

because I deserve it

I’m disappointing you

every day these thoughts come to mind.

Father of mine…

Today was the first time I spoke to you

in four long years.

She foisted her phone into my beating hands

like a pusher pushing pills at a party

and I swallowed all my awkwardness

until it perched on my stomach’s seabed

and breathed a gobsmacked “hello” to my estranged father.

Flitting between fond memories

(all six of them)

and chucklesome banter

(that isn’t so chucklesome)

I laugh and I giggle and I smile and she pipes in beside me

content to be our relationship’s catalyst.

You’re away, frittering about in some far-flung country

where business is rife and you’re free from the stench of failure

failure at being a dad, a husband and a friend.

You tell me you’ll be back soon

like a perpetual Schwarzenegger, the phrase has been on a loop

in my head for the best part of a decade

so you shouldn’t expect a homecoming party anytime soon

because soon is a very long time

for such a short word.

Island dreams, coconut groves

I knew it was going to hurt.

Like a severed limb, cut off, bleeding

it was always going to have an unsavoury feeling.

The amputation was set in motion back in January

when I told you I didn’t love you

anymore

and we ran circles around our words

had muffled conversations in burger bars

and pressed our palms together in desperate solidarity

and then we waited.

The operation commenced in the month of May

when we went our separate ways

left with bloody stumps, the both of us

our bandages were cherry-red and ached

we knew it would take time to heal.

What I didn’t bargain for was the loss of two limbs

– one for you and one for the country we’d lived in

that sun-dappled, banana breeding ground closer to Africa than Europe

which I would moan about and rant about to reluctant relatives

who told me “just come home”

and now I miss that platano-infested wasteland

of orange-gold hills clad in the sun’s rays

ugly, Arizona-esque but comforting all the same.

We left our flat and burned our bridges

and ripped out our relationship’s stitches

left your handy, hopeful car

tucked away behind a few bushes by the airport

and made a dash for it, a dash towards the unknown.

These bloody stumps may never heal

because I loved you and our life

and now I’ve broken the seal.

Dodging germs

There’s not a lot you can say to somebody who’s ill.

Somebody who coughs like they’re allergic to oxygen

and can’t find clean air to breathe,

somebody who sniffs and snuffles and talks in a muffled

croaky, woe-is-me voice, fractured and afraid

that the common cold might kill them.

I’ve had plenty of illnesses, plenty of bugs,

I’ve swallowed plenty of tablets and drank Lemsip

from plenty of mugs, ’til my face turned lemony, bitter like a nettle,

and my breath started smelling strangely like Dettol.

I’ve had a handful of flus, a handful of UTIs,

I’ve thrown a sickly shade of green up in front of teenage guys

on a green in Kew Gardens, when the liquor had hardened

in my stomach

and I sat with my head in a bin, spewing the remnants of a Subway sandwich.

I’ve had McDonalds food poisoning and full-bodied chicken pox

the former had me chucking up bitesized nuggets

the latter had hands, grandfatherly rugged,

spraying my back with tepid water

while I listened to the faint voice of his beloved daughter,

– my mother

the one who’s ill now and spewing her guts out

and popping paracetamol ’til she reaches the goal

of numbness.

There’s not a lot I can say to her,

except “get well soon” or “I hope you get better”

and give her a pat on the back or blow her a kiss

staying away from those leperous lips.

She woke me up with her violent upchucks

two nights ago, tossing to and fro,

I could hear her writhing in amongst the sheets,

internally mumbling a chorus of “why me’s”

but in the morning there wasn’t much to say

except “oh you poor thing, I hope you’re okay”

and wait for her illness to latch its greasy claws onto little old me

I’m sure soon I’ll be spluttering

and turning Hulk-green.

European weekend

We rolled into a Spanish town, filled with green crested hills and fluffy neighbourhoods

And I’m thinking about work and life and commitments

I’m pondering the flaky freelance mode de vie,

I’m wondering if it’ll stunt me socially

And make me boring and broke.

As the flesh coloured figures roll past the window panes

And the platforms dash in a blur of brushed aluminium

Thoughts ricochet off my synapses

And flood my mind with what ifs and how to’s

The world seems so scary

My path seems so bumpy

When I make good with my brain

That’s when it’ll all piece together.

Cucarachas

Cockroaches are underrated

They’re universally hated

For being oh so dirty

And a little too flirty

With mess and food

And people’s shoes

So they’re stamped on and crushed

Or down the toilet they’re flushed

Gut reaction is to squash

And give your hands a good wash

People don’t realise

A cockroach can survive

Atomic bombs and other disasters

And at playing dead they’re total masters

So how about we cut ’em some slack

And refrain from taking a WHACK!

Planes, trains and automobiles

People rush to shove their bags overhead Like a herd of wildebeest and you’re mufasa.

They prance and prowl about in this tiny aisle, knocking you sideways.

Before reaching far-flung corners of the world,

They’ll fling their luggage tags at you,

Run over your big toe

And elbow you in the cheek, arm or collar bone

Without any sort of apology.

Overhead space is like prime real estate

Because we’ve got so much stuff,

So many creams, so many serums,

So many outfits and hair products

A ball of mad capitalism.

Tall, quick-footed parents step over you to claim their space,

Older lemon-faced ladies moan at the lack of legroom,

Children sit scared in their seats and tap away on their Samsungs.

And the stuff piles up, high above our heads,

Weighing us down both here and there.

A winter weekend last year

We cosied up to eachother in

European buses and craft beer bars.

We took snow-freckled paths around

the city, and the rain spat its lovely

juices at us in Barcelona – wet and

wintery, I hoped it would never end.

Then we sidled up to one another

within the chalk-coloured walls of a

boutique b&b. They threw in a hot tub

and we threw off our clothes.

Dancing streets, bustling beer bars

and the dimlit lights of taxis and

tourists swarm around us. Protests

were staged, and I felt awkward

watching… I’ve never fought for

anything before and I guess that’s a

good thing.

Dirty ramen

It’s impossible to act like a princess

when you’re eating ramen.

I pull apart these stubborn chopsticks,

and watch the wood splinter,

like lovers scorned they leap apart

and drown in an oil-soaked, soupy bath

where mushrooms bob up and down

like caramel apples and

bamboo shoots cling to beansprouts

for dear life.

My lips are smothered in broth

napkin smudge-ridden, turning from white to brown

I slurp back sinewy noodles

knotted and silky, drenched in stew

and feel the sauce ooze down my chin.

Teeth no doubt stained

face no doubt smudged

mouth no doubt dyed with soy sauce.

Stop objectifying chicken tikka.

Porn

for the stomach

Orgasm

for the soul

masala mayhem ensues.

 

A creamy layer of coconut and almonds

topples on top of chicken chunks

and lips are licked

while throats yawn open

like snapping crocodiles.

 

In and out

feeding frenzy

bite and swallow

love at first sight.

 

Indian food, will you marry me?

so I can plant a sloppy kiss on your spiced cheek

and live happily ever after

in one big billowing poppadom orgy.

 

Chutney smothering my chops

Naan bitten and torn

ripped and ravaged,

undressed, unpeeled

on our first night together.

 

Porn

for the stomach

Orgasm

for the soul

my ever-lasting love affair

with chicken tikka masala.