PARA ESCAPAR

THIS is a love letter

written from a misplaced sense of

duty // lack // inspiration // calm,

an intermingled sense of guilt that seems to

overpower all other forms: existence

and its milky sweaty bile

THIS morning

I woke up, remembered how

you’d told me I was like a person from a novel, except you used a different word and it wasn't the first time I have chosen to forget ---

sometimes when I wake I want it to be

raining so I don't have to get out of bed;

describe my eyes half closed and not half open.

my sheets need washing

they are green not blue.

I think of you now at the airport;

you buy overpriced coffee

in an irate manner

even though you know

in advance

that this will happen every time you fly

are you wearing socks today

and what colour is your soul

You used to imagine a lifetime project award for

destroying all instruments

held in student bedsit hoards while we

affected languor

sipping whisky or maybe other

unidentifiable sedimented forms,

brown liquor and yet however

whatever drink the sentiment

persists. 

at the time I found this cruel

and didn’t comprehend the mizzle-shinned

demise of etiquette or why it

mattered to the figures dressed in linen

but apparently you hate bonfires and

techniques for washing faces never change. THIS

is a love letter intended to incite,

excite the cells with sense of misplaced

longing for the sea, abandoned in a

rock pool somewhere analogue, unspecified and digital:

another summer by the beach.

It was/ is cold and hot and there’s a faded towel striped in white and green

wrapped loosely round your frame -- protruding skinny knees -- fingers tightly grip the shaft, 

third plastic spade you break this week and

you throw everything away

almost like you know regret will come,

and tears so many tears

but do it anyway.

That summer you got bitten

by a clam and this expiration

set its teeth so early that it’s

almost doing time.

Boilersuit

clad supervisor snatches, cracks of glee amidst the treacle grind and bestial moans from which your lungs are made.

This weekend I lied.

***

I don’t know when it was

I realised that

the things that make you happy make me sad

tonight we went for dinner,

both of us chose

baccalau and at least our taste in

fish is still the same

even if I cannot quench desire when you look at me like that

too many metaphoric twists

to stomach after all.

when I got in I finished off the cupboard snacks

because I need to suffer now

internally

intestinally

said quickly everything’s the same ---

until tomorrow when

we’ll wipe it clean away

last june you became increasingly

obsessed with wunderblocks, the tides,

reverse osmosis, fracking and

your mother called and I

refused to take a shower

documentaries on beavers and behaviours

saved something

whilst allowing something else to die.

It’s midnight and

I know nothing now at all.

***

I could hear madonna on the floor below

just loud enough to set my thoughts -

It was like a little bit of tarmac

made its gristling way --- all the while

leaving smears of granite up my insides ---

through this yellow livered frame

to lodge inside my skull

and rattle round.

this IS a love letter to inflict

hanging over juices of an evening badly spent

the long trudge home

mired whisperings, another person’s fun

and celebration of that life well executed, well

time / time / time

it’s terrible to pass it on

or pass it by

nonetheless persist, incessantly, 

trying to make out with it

a little lipstick trace and

scattered clothes

it’s always two am

this IS a letter of caress

however long we spend

in one another’s thoughts

our breath is acrid, without

cigarettes: refused / refusé / held at bay again

yet spleen has

other odours

ready once our guard is down

to vomit up, apparently, so

a taste of

other mornings brings us back to

how a resolution to be

different failed and failed again

spatters out, malignant sulphur

from my ochre lips;

my body feels engorged

it’s hot, a sickness

hating how my skin begins to change its hue

and shape and

too much hanging, if you know what’s good

for you

this IS a letter from myself

appealing to a nature better than the one that strikes a chord

now taking fewer showers

roll with less wholesome an aesthetic

(and) carry on and on.

recently I sniffed my fingers, hoping for new habits to take hold

they smelt of those

cheap marinated olives that you buy

in jars

and wish you’d

spent an extra euro on the good ones

as they squeak against your gums;

but satisfied also by this outlook

and this state of strapped for cash

ability to suffer

in this life for the next

slacking off. shutting down.

THIS is how my love evolves:

come too early home to

shallow thoughts

counting people

whose appearance pissed me off

morello clash to make me nervous and irate

I launched myself, dived into that sweet synthetic muskeg dressed for going out

survived

like the time invited to a concert

arrived the wrong day, tried to dance as if to music

I thought should be playing

(please stop with your significance

for just a tiny breath)

I guess tomorrow I’ll attempt to stake a hideout

see you creep

your way up my oesophagus again

to lodge amidst incisors;

perhaps we’ll snuggle there a little

while my wisdom teeth remain.

***

 

 

do you ever think about how our cells gyrate?

lining up like dominos

to topple down, one little breath, and break? 

I always run from noise, while you prefer the drama

of the exit, clash of cymbals

disingratiating stage,

these eardrums, perforated

in a pattern of your making;

today I tasted jam for the first time in a while, noticed

greying holes

in the t shirt I have on: I never saw them up til now

but figure it’s too late to turn it round. or inside out ---

I guess this is

a letter of apology

written in my head outside the door

I failed to adequately lock

and subsequently couldn’t

get back in. I kicked it down, and this,

a satisfying start to any day

but I was in the wrong,

consistently, deliberately,

sometimes my brain shuts down   ---I’m afraid

forgot to say goodbye

and left alone

arms firmly held across the black shirt I had on for 

miser thoughts

running paws

blood shot eyes

wide / wider / wide

a songdance, 4 am, when birds should offer

chorus, but instead just shit on shoulders

creamy letters for a gloaming dawn

acataleptic staircase that seemed to suck me in

not all my belongings made it home, of course

they nestle in the threshold where desires and sorries meet

three messages of love misfired: they hit a mark

and bounced, like head against the wall, spam emails, advertising

wasted words

and sorry said repeatedly loses its allure.

Instead I’ll tell you how

a few nights ago I

dreamt about a foothold in the rock, fumbling fingers

feeling forwards for a grip

and we don’t need search engines to tell us what this means

you are mine, myopic - turquoise – multi-coloured face

we slip

between the houses

and it was twenty times you told me: moisturise (exclamation mark implied)

and how do any of us manage this at all?

too fragile, I break down with just one shadow glance

these brittle, mussitating bones and

I must have missed that rendez vous for

doing what I’m told

***

congratulations! you’re impossible

to handle or to understand

of course this is attractive to a person

who hates challenges but loves to be let down

slink between the bed sheets

stare at crevices,

crevasse of ceiling caving in

and sweat

a little

on my palms

between the brows

one day we’ll laugh about it all

on balconies, stuffing something in our mouths

and serenely spitting out:

how these freshly pressed pyjamas (an unexpected gift from overseas, a great aunt we don’t talk about (who carries an un-shifting air of someone who was cheated,

sucking on a mint that knocks against her old / old yellow teeth))

disguises darker shades and deeper frowns.

in the telling I’m remiss, and wonder if

there’s something of significance exchanged, or merely just implied -

if only I would listen.

or indeed pick up the phone;

smoke these humours out

and how is this seduction going now? 

remembering our last meeting makes me think of all the different

kinds of fruits I let go bad, the times I made my upper jaw lock in, sometimes the roof of my mouth goes really white and stings

and have YOU ever felt this?

the link eludes me but it’s there

how zesty ---

--- start to fetishise ---

spread strawberries across another clichéd crepey limb –

enough, this is ridiculous

a most mercurial musing of a moment lost already

to the chaos of the sun

it’s hot today so early:

unread messages on my phone

demand attention

but you must remember how adept I am

at styling out an ignorance

insouciance, appropriate, appropriated, I

let everybody down.

I hate receiving questions

prefer instead to hint

in other ways, float upon not under skin

too muddling.

construct a dozen lists

intone, a little introspectively

what’s making me feel small?

I wish that you’d write back

***

sometimes I feel sorry,

I resist,

these thoughts about

my bones so broken, brittle, blessed,

today my task is simply just to

try to stop the window

blowing closed

as buses scud the clouds

it’s harder than you think.

my dreams are filled with shores,

inhabited by people

I no longer have the time

or inclination to involve:

to me this means

my memory is a theatre of the sea;

how salty

lick it up

(like drips of basil ice cream:

so so globular and thick)

skirt round about and through it all,

avoid

a void

deposits with your tongue

but not on this mouth, baby!

yet // still // for now

I

tread a sandy trench and

bury all my lovers in a row

avoid the row ---

catastrophes, they come in threes

so

stuck in here for final blast

I'm hoping for some juicy metagnomic twist

a kitten scratches

at my leg:

response,

a stammer, dropping

syllables like sticky flies

it’s only two pm

oh christ. >>>

my fingers are diminishing,

a once abundant heart

beneath the slogan on my front

it's fading with each wash

and --- and ---

what accomplishment

or

the wakeful froth,

the open top,

the skull,

the boat,

the sound of motor,

taste of wind

and promises to formulate

geometrically described

meditate

materially

envisaged

from the outside:

all your poems end in fire or time

(is this a letter or goodbye?)