Tag: poetry

Friday TCR

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And she sat up there

Words like rose petals floating from mouth to floor

And I’m just perched here in awe

Having travelled an hour and a half door to door

To listen to words that are honey-like

Dripping into the mic

Sweet and inspiring

Forehead perspiring (don’t all of ours)

And I’m fearful for tomorrow

For the fruits it’ll bring

A dark shadow sewn into my skin

Brain etched in a fog

Burnt out by the London smog.

After the gig I paced up and down Tottenham court road

Like a wildly indecisive runner

With too much time on her hands

And a stomach full of Dr Pepper

Couldn’t bring myself to go back in

And bare my soul to someone new

Whose job isn’t to listen to me natter

Burst my thoughts forth in glorious splatter

So I trudged to the tube and hissed at tourists who wouldn’t move

As quickly as my marathon legs

Short and strong

I made the hour journey back home

Walking up a dimlit alley I’m fearful of tomorrow

And I’m laced with sorrow

It permeates my core

And leaves me sore

But strong all the same

For ever more.

Over and out

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I guess we grew like weathered flowers

And I guess I grew a little bit taller

A little bit faster

A little bit more soaked in your potion

Than you were in mine.

And it sometimes hurts to know you’re not that bothered

And other times it angers to know this was only for a season

Little did I know the season would sizzle

But be short lived

And little did I know it wasn’t quite going to work

Past the months of bronzing and barbecuing.

And I gave a piece of myself to you

Opened my doors wide and beckoned you in

And I’m glad I did

Despite the attachment I formed

Like an octopus clinging to your legs

Suckling on your teet

Stuck to your words which you threw so spaghetti like at my walls

They stayed there stuck

(They still are now)

A reminder of what’s possible

And what may be better than you.

When you realise he’s maybe just not that into you and everything slows to a snail’s pace and you start tearing your hair out and balling your eyes out.

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The journey has come to a screeching halt

From pedal to floor

I heard its thunderous roar

As it stopped dead in its tracks.

Panic ensued

Anxiety came

Asking myself “what is this game?”

Because we’ve started shuffling cards, dealing hands

And I’m no longer chugging along sands

Of limp, moth-eaten metal

No carriage to rest or settle

Just an abrupt shove into a passerby

Flung from my seat with emotions awry

Buckle up babe it’s going to be a bumpy ride

From here on out

With this particular duvet-lipped guy.

When I realised I’d fallen

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As we rolled past the river

The monuments

The gold-clad beasts

Shaking, bathing in the glow

Of the water’s edge by Waterloo

Your duvet lips spring to mind

Permeate the creases of my brain

Invade my thoughts with a pick axe

Cutting down the others

I’d been growing

Like sweet nectar.

I melt beneath them

Chew on their plumpness

Get high on their juices

Those rolls that seal me

Like an envelope

Your loveliness cuts through

And bubbles beneath the surface

As the train tracks roll by.

I think of you when the night curses

And the day yawns open

And when my phone buzzes

And my body yearns to be touched.

Stubborn

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You’re bright and flexible

like a glow stick

how strange it is

to be enjoying the journey

the part most people want to skip

the part people lose their heads about

panicking

screaming thoughts into pillows

spilling questions into Reddit’s holes

– not me

and yet today marks the first day

we haven’t texted

in more than a month

we’ve been on this cycle

like a haunted washing machine

since the day you added my number

– this spin cycle didn’t feel like

it was going to end

but it has

and now i’ve only to hang out

the clothes to dry

let the moisture evaporate

like piss on a hot tin roof

strip back the fabrics

until they’re mere fibres.

Assessing the damage

– could i be doing it

for the chase?

might i have refrained from messaging

because i have nothing to say

– could it be a test?

or maybe you’re on a date

and maybe i’m on a date

and we’re both rocking

on somebody else’s genitals

(i’m not. i’m in my pyjamas

banned from the living room

hiding from stranger things spoilers)

you: probably reading or running

or wondering about me

– not feeling like chasing?

that’s fine.

i remind myself i’ve given away

a part of me to you

provided you with a swipe card

chipped off a chunk of my soul

and my body and handed it

to you like a piece of late homework

the lucky recipient of a quivering

maladjusted morsel of a girl

who doesn’t receive many guests

who is open for business once a year

whose tectonic plates rumble daily

(but rumbled by themselves

never shaken by another)

you have a small part of me

which i hardly ever give out

like those rarest of pokemon

those rare droplets of rain on Gran Canaria

those times my great uncle

digs a hand in his pocket

and buys us a meal

those moments on the tube

when i feel sweat-free

those days when i can actually

look at myself in the mirror

without wincing

and so it’s not to be sneezed at

this gifting malarkey

but i’m happy with my recipient

this tadpole i plucked

from the dating pool lucky dip

– i’m happy with my choice

even if it ends poorly

and leaves my heart sore

(or soar?)

because semantics make quite a difference.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The week after

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The week after, I’ve been left with flaming wreckage. A plane engulfed by biting fire and yapping sparks has been laid at the foot of my bed like a weak old party balloon.

“Is this what courting is?” I find myself saying. Sounding strangely like a grandmother with clotted cream hair and purple eyelids.

Is it supposed to be buried beneath a flurry of sexualised messages, dirty whispers and cyber seduction? Is this how dating goes in the modern world?

These otherworldly, devilish letters and icons lead me through a maze where the end point looks to be a thick fluffy duvet and steady breathing, moaning. Crumbs lurking beneath writhing derrieres, squashed by midnight blues and swollen purples, beg for mercy.

Where’s the inane chat? The everyday tube dilemmas? The tepid English air making you croak out messages of discontent and strife?

The ‘whatcha been up tos’, the ‘how’s your day goings’ – those have frittered away in the sweat-saddled heat, morphing into ‘i want you nows’ and ‘talk dirty to mes’ and that’s where the courting feels alien. Messages sent from another planet from a little green man with an erect penis.

 

Duvet.

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You are gorgeous, vibrant and have the hair of a rockstar, the mouth of a warm, spring-saddled duvet and the eyes of a twinkly blow torch.

They cut through me, singe my skin and seep their warm fire into my body’s crevices unapologetically.

Set alight by you, oozing your thunder, I’m completely captured, spellbound, clad in chaotic lust.

Your duvet lips envelop me, like Peter Pan and Wendy, they send me soaring through heart-addled skies and my brain fizzes and rages against the air and that bulbous London Eye gently rocking on the horizon.

It takes a great deal out of me

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I had lengthy midnight cyber kisses with a boy who looks like Jim Morrison.

The conversation grew on feeble, fecund words about sports and television. We reeled off quotes like a game of table tennis and peculiar deep self talk.

You asked me to describe myself as if I were in an interview. And after my thumbs clicked and words harpooned themselves onto my message bar (the word “typing” forever appearing) I knew I’d become stuck in the treacle-like web that is lusting after somebody I’d never met before.

It’s a sticky mess of pink and grey – a stark contrast between what you think you know and what you actually do.

He’s the Jim to my Pam. He’s the waffle I want to wake up to. The whipped cream I want to guzzle. The song I’d like to keep on repeat.

Or is he?

Maybe he’s vacuous and selfish. Artistically-driven but pretentiously-inclined. Beneath his beard are lies and beneath his eyelids are sadness and maybe he’s not what I think he is.

Still, those midnight cyber kisses prevailed. I felt my eyes become doused in fiery fatigue, begging to close, but unwilling to do so while the conversation flowed like melted chocolate.

He said I was attractive and that’s when I fell to my knees. Too busy relishing in the idea that somebody liked me, too caught up in this fleeting feeling of self-worth that I found it hard once the medicine had worn off… to be pleased with myself.

Because if I can act like that – like a slippery, giggly schoolgirl whose self-esteem bar has only just begun to lift off the ground, then I’m further back than I thought. Further down the gym rope than I’d anticipated. Further back on my journey of tube stops to Self Confidence Street or Extoverted Alley.

Eventually we said farewell. I left my phone off airplane mode, longing to hear that chipper buzz in the small hours… a sign you were thinking of me.

And then I wrestle with my duvet and push my face into my pillow and scream.

Because I don’t even know you, Jim.

 

 

The middle of the carriage

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And I’ll stand in the middle of the carriage

Entwined around a bar

Legs wedged around rucksack

Head resting on the pole

And instead of feeling exposed

In a sea of people – the only one standing

I toughed it out and remained there lurking

Could have hop-footed to the end

And hidden by that menacing window

That blows your hair to and fro

And is too stiff to raise

(I know, I’ve tried)

Instead I stayed stuck firmly in the middle

Of this leaky, foul-breathed carriage

Where coffee slurps and morning angst

Flood through like creaking sludge

The middle is where I was

Until a seat popped up

Like those rarest of Pokemon

And I snatched it and sat

Content with my mini achievement for the day.

Hangovers

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We swigged

And I suffered through a glass of tepid, flat prosecco

(Complimentary so failure to chug was not an option)

Then the glass turned bottle-shaped

And bubbles pierced my lips and throat

And I’m pretty sure my teeth groaned after being sugar-slapped.

After three glasses each (or two?) the bottle was empty

Like an abandoned alcoholic barnyard

Snatched off our table by a server who brought us pizza too late

And our bill too soon.

I’m sitting there swigging fizz and swallowing bubbles

And then I’m quaffing double vodkas

Served in cups which are too small

The spirit explodes in my mouth like a bomb made of fiery gasoline

Meant for cars not people surely

But dancing helps, and I soon forget I’m sipping burning sludge

And it’s onto the next, and then a shot

(Because why not?)

The hangover is awful and obscene and my tongue feels like a bristly rug

That’s been soaked in alcohol and doused in fuel

My brain is fried and my lips are chapped

All this for a boogie?

I can’t tell if it’s worth it or not.