I spend all day twisting and contorting my features
To feel like an ounce of a human
Worthy of love, worthy of life.
I spend every minute feeling compelled to look my best
To every passerby
They could have a face like a foot
And yet I’d still seek to impress
Like a peacock riddled with cancerous boils who flashes her feathers
To hide the putrid, pus-caked skin
Clinging to her underbelly.
Every action is shackled to Beauty
Every head tilt, smile, stroll or expression
Doused in a sickly sweet, eager to please haze
Of self optimisation.
Tag: poet
Poolside panting.
As I sit here, gaze flickering,
From pool to people, beautifully blond beaus
Pushing prams around tiles soaked in cloud, not sun,
(Because it’s November so go figure)
The pangs of loneliness surface
But then promptly retreat, like smiling Pennywises
Dipping back into a drainy kingdom
From very high to very low
Today was a day of mammoth contrasts
when the good met the bad and then the ugly
and I found myself struggling to claw my way out of
a cylindrical hole
my feelings had pushed me into.
I think I broke part of my brain because this oxymoron was so loud
and moronic, true to its name
I think the bits of flesh couldn’t handle two juxtaposed giants
vying for my attention
I’d like to think they had equal chances but it’s clear the bad had the upper hand
the smirking winner
the bad took control and the good lay flaccid and dull
under a dreary spotlight
incredible praise met with steamrolling terror
that glides over you like you’re a wannabe pancake
making mince meat or mashed potato out of my head
an unbelievable contrast that collided against my skull
and I haven’t been able to think straight since.
Ldn
I like London
even when I’m breathing in chemical cancers burped up by buses
and dodging dog turd seeping into the pavement when I’m out for my run
the dozens and dozens of cookie cutter couples
humming around like bees in beanies and bright baseball jackets
that drip vintage down to their kneecaps.
I like London
the convenience, the ease of delivery, the lattes brewing around every corner
that gaping chasm beneath our feet
where people sit and sweat
and bounce from borough to borough in a rattling box
that spot on our walks where buildings bruise the battered skyline
and shed the puffy clouds.
Happy yawns
I never write when I’m happy
Except for now, while I’m bursting
at the seams with gratitude.
It’s overpowering
like water running through the pipes of the soul.
I sat on the carpet beneath the Christmas tree
and soaked up the flickering of the lights,
brushed the lukewarm, balmy carpet
with my fingers
and felt comfort envelop me,
cradle me,
shower me with its kisses.
Past experiences will always remain,
the future will always feel foggy,
I’ll always grapple with the present.
I may look upon it all fondly,
but that doesn’t mean I need it.
Hamster wheels
I might be a slave to capitalism
That’s what I’ve decided
These wild hours sat with a screen
And then evenings spent pumping out words
Like some verbose, defecating machine
Weekends working that hamster wheel again
The money is addicting
And the silence of not doing
Is deafening
So I’ll do and continue to do
To fill the quiet air with pennies and pounds
And stop it inflating with the cold tickle of worry
Bumbling, sore, back is bruised from the inside
Chest is tight, feet feel swollen
Convinced I’m dying in some way
(I guess we all are, in the end)
Poised to deliver, biting off more than my mouth and fingers can handle
Capitalist slave, I didn’t realise rest is rebellion.
A hazardous week
I have been knocked over this week
Like pins at a bowling alley
Kicked and thrashed
Battered against the back
Of that mysterious black bit
You can’t see behind
Throttled by failure
Plagued by faux pas
And today I am supposed to dust
Myself off and present the shiniest
Brushed aluminium version of myself
To a total stranger
Desperately seeking an escape route
A respite for this mangled brain.
Always working
Work is swallowing me whole
I’m devoured, kicking and stomping against the roof of its Victorian mouth
Stringy thoughts like syrup
Cling to colleagues and projects and deadlines
And weekends are hazy and jagged
Flooded with feelings of money earning, the grind 48 hours from now
An empty Saturday lends itself to too much time spent musing
With money churning in the background
Realising you’re a cog, small and insignificant
Working always, whether it’s at the 9 to 5
Or working on myself
Always ruminating, stalling, forgetting, planning
Sheets sodden with schedules and words
Blunt days off with no real purpose
Work thoughts pour in like post drought rain.
Outside and warm
There’s something to be said
For sitting on rattan chairs and looking up
At a tie dyed sky
The same inky blue I saw in a dress earlier
The one I added to basket but never checked out
This is a sky of another era, a time
When we rode like ghosts on American highways
Legs pressed up against the dashboard
Podcast blaring nonsense
Gently slipping into sleep
Half expecting to hit a deer
That fear every time we rounded a bend
Or you vroomed a little too callously
A cacophony of screeching, and my brain doing somersaults
Playing out the poor deer’s death
And this balmy air also smacks of times in Spain
By the sea where we built our lives
And had a fridge full of food
And money in the bank
Dusted pink sunsets trickling down to the seafront
Paellas baked fresh, inches from the seabed
Tummies content and hankering for margaritas on Friday nights
Warm all the time
Flip flops flung over shoulders
Walks down to the beach and then back to Lidl
For a feast
Work was still a drag, head filled with dread
Every fucking Sunday night
Like some stupidly mundane weekly ritual
The brain bashing, self inflicted fear and loathing in Las Palmas
I was still afflicted like I am now
But those balmy sun dappled evenings
Grinning on terraces
Stuck like insects in a treacly loveless web
Boy was it good sometimes.
A year has passed and you’re back in my DMs
you got your foot in the door
yet again, a beautiful ghost at it
once more
starve you, I tried
there’s whispers you care and you
want to make things right
but I throttle those whispers
they slip lifelessly into unconsciousness
I’m lighting my tongue on fire
just talking to you
but it’s not the same adoration
lingering like perfume
in the air
not the
drop-everything-lets-text-back
frenzy that once furrowed by brow
made me mad with “love”
drunk on lust
in fact
I couldn’t give a fuck.
talking to my pillow. 