Nobody’s watching

These colour-cut shapes

Reveal the pain;

So just think slow,

It’ll come back again.

And when it finally does

You won’t remember us.

So just carry on dancing

Like nobody’s watching.

Everytime you wake

I fade away

And it feels worse

Each passing day.

And this is where we sit

to be alone

She takes all eyes

away from you

Because she’s the only one dancing,

And she’s only just starting.

Find yourself,

Discarded on the shelf, 

Wanting to dance like her

Because she moves for just herself

And lives for no-one else, 

Like nobody’s watching; 

but everyone’s watching

Her.

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Grenfell

It burns and burns

With a plastic smell

But the roars are ignored,

Unhearing the yells

Of those who lost 

At the shake of a hand

The assurance of life

Or a safety plan,

Or sprinkling ceilings

Or wider halls

Or the gift of time

To save them all.

May they be remembered,

May they be restored,

For the ash won’t settle

Until the rules are redrawn.

Brexit

Can you feel it beneath you?

That gentle sway?

As the rope is cut

And we drift away

And find ourselves,

All drenched with blue,

Suspicously watching

The friend next to you.

They lied to us

About the future we need;

They played a game

To make us leave.

Forget me

Please don’t forget me

Or let me fade

Into the stretching darkness 

Which hangs between days.

Because I am the man,

I am the demon;

The gasps of air

Which keep you breathing.

How dare you forget me,

Turn away and run

And leave me casting shapes

Against the setting sun.

Because I am that night,

That cold, wet evening;

The dead-dull eyes

Staring up at the ceiling.

For I will always stay

And continue to hide

In the empty bedspace

I left by your side.

WHISKEY.

A blur of what is

Behind

A world that bends, splits, 

divides.

And on we go,

My friend,

As the –

The night,

The night goes on

And it goes on

And on,

Beyond us.

And she won’t see 

Into me,

See me

See me again. 

When it was her,

Woman,

She 

She made me drunk.

Yes;

Too drunk,

floating in chunks

Of every meal

I ate that day,

That bad fucking day.

But what are you?

Tell me, please. 

You’re the

The time to stop

Are we?

To tell me

To drink me away?

Take

My drink away?

Please listen,

Don’t go don’t

Please don’t;

You’re not

Lis- you’re not

Please don’t go.

Because tomorrow,

It always stings

When I wake 

Up to none of the things

I used to love.

Pinch

Cut the pain away. Cut the fucking pain away. The scissor blades are cold. Icey edges. My foot slips slightly on the toilet seat as I shift my shoulders for a better view of myself. All of me. As I move, the scissors sting me. I wince.

The mirror reveals my shameful shapes. My awkward, ugly pose. Filthy, dirty angles. Neck twisted, arm reversed and tucked under my right leg which is lifted up and propping itself on the toilet. My stuff hanging scared and insignificant. Scissors pinched. Cold and sharp. Fucking sharp.
The scissors sting again. I have never seen myself from this angle before. The muscles in my back move differently to how it feels from the front. I look like someone else. I feel like someone else. Please be someone else. Anyone else. The scissors, they burn me. Cut the pain away. Mutate me. 

Wiping my arse has been an event over the past few weeks. This huge fucking haemorrhoid. It moved in, occupied me and decided to continue bursting and healing. Burst and heal. Fucking burst and never heal. Only scabs. Well, this is it. The showdown. 

I’m stood strange in my bathroom. Leg up and pile pinched between steel. Skin shining hot-wet. A singular bead of sweat slides fast down my spine before slipping into my arse crack. 

I’m mouth-breathing now. A minute goes by and I do absolutely nothing. Then, I press hard down onto the scissors and squeeze them together. I feel the pinch. I feel the burn, the sting, the tear. The release. My butthole puckers like a kiss. Then it spits blood. The pile hits the floor all bloody and purple. And then everything is wet with red. 

Scissors meet floor. Floor meet blood, scissors and I’m sure you’ve all met pile. I shuffle and rip streams of toilet paper from the wall before stuffing it between my ass cheeks. The tissue turns red and dark. I wash myself down, hike up my underwear and jeans before taking a final look in the mirror.

The mirror reveals my shameful shapes. My awkward, ugly pose. Filthy, dirty angles. Trimmed and unwhole. And yet the pain remains. Somewhere in me. Deep. I pick up the scissors once again and survey myself. The steel traces my skin as I stand weird and unnecessary. Cut the pain away. Mutate me. Please.

Warmth

Slow your bones, my love,

And drift off away

Back to those fields we sat,

Content, on a summer day.

Imagine the slight smile

Which moved with certainty

across the shapes of your face

As you realised everything

You were searching for

Was here, 

in its right place.

Overcast

I’m trying ever so hard

to exist today.

Feeling all see-through;

Thinking foggy, thinking greys.

Overcast by the thoughts 

which have settled behind my eyes

 and the headful of wool 

soaks up words from my mind.

Because I want to say I love you;

And I want to say I care,

but when the darkness falls

it’s hard to see you there.

And I know that you are there,

I can feel your sad eyes,

yet I’m sat here mouthless,

drowning as you sigh.

Please don’t leave me

Alone in my head

Because I’m screaming for help

With every word unsaid.

Warmth

Slow your bones, my love,

And drift off away

Back to those fields we sat,

Content, on a summer day.

Imagine the slight smile

Which moved with certainty

across the shapes of your face

As you realised everything

You were searching for

Was here, 

in its right place.

Trainlines

The train seats are eighties brown etched with egg-yolk yellow. It’s rude to rest your feet on them, but  the carriage is empty so you do it anyway. Only one earphone works, the sun is burning your left side and, christ, there’s nowhere to throw your empty drink can.

A blur of trees. Trainlines always seem to look into the worst gardens the country has to offer. Plastic slides bask pale in the summer heat whilst branches sway like arms in a crowd. We move, with purpose, until the greenery dirties with concrete greys. 

The carriage fills, someone gives you a look and you move your legs. How rude. This is society and we all need to work together to keep everything from changing. Embrace the stasis. Embrace the eticate and expectation please, then we’ll get all get along just fine. The same person gets off the train at the next stop. A waste of a seat. Your legs return to rest upon the seat. How wonderful is it to rebel in the littlest of ways. I see you smiling.

Conversations are happening around you. All you need to do is stop thinking and listen. Suddenly, you are a part of someone’s dialogue: “Sharon never listens. She keeps going back to him.” Poor Sharon, people are talking about you and do not think you listen to them. Sharon, they are assuming that you disobeying them is you not listening. You strangely begin to defend Sharon, the absent party. Your thoughts move to a position of empathy. Sharon does understand and listen, but she still has a choice, regardless of what those around her think.

“Her choices are illogical.” The other person in the conversation says. How unfair. Choices are rarely ever illogical. There is always a logic to a decision. This, however, does not mean that every decision is a good decision. Sharon may be coerced into staying with whoever it is they are referring to. She may just love him more than he hurts or disappoints or annoys her. Or children. There could be a multitude of complex systems influencing Sharon and her decisions. Sharon weighs up her finances, hears what everyone has to say about her life, imagines her future, considers what change would look like then she decides on who she wants to be and who she wants to be with. Then she decides. It turns out Sharon decided to be with him and be that person that people talk about. She decided to be everyone else’s business when deciding her own. Don’t listen to them, Sharon, even though you probably did.