Morals
I wrote them down,
on post-it notes,
screwed them up,
shoved them in pockets.
And one by one,
threw them in puddles,
but they always came,
sailing back to me.
-A.
April 18, 2012
March 27, 2012
Untitled #7
We met at the local record store,
hidden beneath the bluegrass section.
Your cross pendant dug into my neck when we kissed.
-A.
March 22, 2012
HI(32)
What do you think of the flat?
Dig deeper under sofas.
Find paper slips exposing newness.
Needle caps stopping girlfriends
from becoming pin cushions.
Ketone stripes like Dulux paint mixtures,
from safe bruised peach
to dangerous bicycle rust.
You misread one hundred for two fifty,
spent the night with the grape
fizzing your intestines into chewed dog toys.
Two litres isn’t enough so you flush
with something more sustainable than
the drink kept at the back of a fridge
in a South London off-license.
-A.
March 16, 2012
Stilton
I fell in love with a girl with a moon face,
spent three days on an exploration,
acne scar caverns, pressure spot terrain.
Though in the end;
you had no sign of water.
-A.
March 14, 2012
Breasts.
The fear of a Doctor’s waiting room can always be linked to your childhood memories and the amount of time spent sitting on seats without padding in dimly lit corridors. It doesn’t matter if it was the eight-year-old me, sat in a ramshackle building barely classed as a GP surgery or now, seated in plush Harley Street surroundings with Monocle magazine staring back at me, it still unnerves me. It’s the perfect place for your childhood qualities to rear their ugly but comforting head. I still want to run straight for the Lego and build an enormous, yet architecturally unstable, skyscraper that takes my mind off of the fact that I’ll have to present a doctor with a bottle of urine moments later. The doctor should still give me a slightly-off tasting strawberry lollipop for being a good boy while he looked straight through my skull with an otoscope and a sticker featuring Tom and Jerry dressed in medical attire for me to display on my school jumper over my left breast. And if she were here, I’d dig my head into my Mother’s stomach covering my ears and closing my eyes, feeling security like a baby kangaroo in the pouch.
But I’m alone and my fingernails are suffering, I could chew right up to my elbow if nervousness took my attention for long enough. It’s one thing to come to the waiting room knowing you have a menial ailment that Mr. Singh, the family doctor who’s spent more time with you than with his own son, could look at within five minutes and send you on your way after some idle chit-chat about your personal life in which you feel strangely comfortable discussing. It’s when Mr. Singh looks at you intently after that five minute check-up, scratches his pathetic excuse for a moustache and suggests that you may need to see somebody who is more qualified than him, that’s the moment the panic sets in. That panic stays with you until you take a seat next to the reception desk. And the room itself, it doesn’t matter if it’s one that I personally paid out of my own pocket for, no amount of tasteful interior design and healthy houseplants can tear your eyes away from the clock. You study every little detail of it, the differences in measurement between the big hand and the little hand, the cursive logo of Quartz and discuss who decides that Roman numerals are still relevant to anyone anymore. I wish more than anything that the sounds of a metronome could be drowned out by the couple sat opposite discussing baby names and arguing over the colour of the walls in the new nursery but nothing could be louder than those ticks and tocks at this very moment. You could take any heinous serial killer throughout the years, strap them to a chair in this room and I’m sure they’d change their mind about whether to give that woman a Chelsea smile given five minutes. This is the one place in the world that forces you to think, there is no choice.
March 4, 2012
Seen, Seine
Hand over the shears and cut the locks from the chain link fence,
we hang beside people who feel the same post-contentedness,
I could have stayed here forever, I was meant to stay here forever,
that’s why your stomach acid fizzled away the keys, rather than the river.
-A.
February 29, 2012
Be Cool. Puke Words. Stay Quiet.
You told my stomach to shush and
ever since you left that duvet,
it aches and aches every day and
I think it might be a tumour and
I think it’s attaching itself to my throat.
But at least my intestines stayed quiet.
-A.
February 27, 2012
Tessellations
There is this infinite black that fills the sky,
and I looked, the epileptic twinkles in the galaxy,
at all those planes mistaken for stars,
the handmade crafts that carry you away from me.
Trust bitten skin at the end of my thumbs,
and how I can just fold my feelings about you into
these eight divides with complete corner folds,
I’ll be flying paper planes for the moon.
-A. (with influence from R.)
February 26, 2012
Ashley
You are number six on a top ten list of
things that keep me alive by
bringing me a step closer to being under ground.
Colour my life with your terminal grey.
And when they ask ‘Whatever happened to him?’
The others will reply with ‘We don’t know…’
‘…I guess he just turned to self-destruction.’
-A.
February 22, 2012
Year two was a strange time for me. I was still finding my feet in school, not really knowing who I was, who my friends were and really, what I was even doing there. I managed to slip into a crowd of boys through a mutual love of football that became my loosely termed ‘friends’. Every lunchtime would be the same, watch slow tick-tocks count down to 1 o’clock, sprint out of the class, grab the ball and head straight for the concrete football pitch.
And that was my school year, mostly. The problem was; I’m shit at football. I was back then and unfortunately for my current five-a-side team, I still am. The thought of a leather bound ball hurtling towards me makes me close my eyes, flinch, and throw up my knees like Tom’s owner when she saw Jerry. Team choosing left me with my back pressed against the walls for more times than I can think to count and my role in team was ‘Alex, you hang back.’ I stuck at it; ‘hanging back’ became my forte. I was the king of ‘hanging back’ and accidently hoofing the ball over the neighbouring house’s fence when panic over defending crossed my brain. Joe Maskell, a prick of a kid whose parents clearly told him he was the greatest to ever live at everything, always burnt prints of his scorning eyes in the back of my head whenever this happened.
But there was one perfect day. After a routine dentist appointment, I came back to school for the last ten minutes of the lunch break and quickly joined in with the on-going game. This time, it was a class war, us, defending Mrs. Winch’s honour versus our fierce rivals from Mrs. Rayleigh’s clan. There was an obvious look of disappointment as a kid with teeth that could eat an apple through a letterbox, two left feet and a very much functioning flinch attribute came running towards the pitch. We were losing, the ball always constantly ending up in our end before we belted it back upfield. Then, the magic happened. The ball fell to my feet. I ran with it, straight into the midfield area. ‘Fuck it’ I thought and swung my leg. The next few moments were beautiful. I opened my eyes to see the ball flying through mid-air with the most magnificent spin on it. In the last few seconds, it curled downwards towards the fence, bounced off and rebounded straight into the bottom left-hand corner. I believe my Dad called that shot ‘the Banana Kick’. Jubi-fucking-lation.
That was the only goal I scored all year. Quickly tiring of football, I learnt that hanging out with girls was way more fun.
This is possibly the root of how I fell in love with Morrissey and romanticism. I honestly wish sometimes that had never happened, that I could just be a ‘man’s man’ with little respect for women and an innate ability to hide all of my feelings. Sometimes I think, just once, I’d like to meet a girl, drink enough tequila to paralyse a sperm whale, take them back to my flat and come morning, never see them again.
-A.
February 21, 2012
Untitled #6
I find you mildly attractive,
a bit too much skin ‘round your sides,
but thank you for being my forgettable,
masturbatory aide tonight.
-A.
February 15, 2012
Tangled Fur
Sleep.
The closure of eye lids into an abyss of endless possibilities.
Pupils kicked into hyper speed through the infinite night,
but infinity lasts for less than five hours mostly.
We lie down near double digits and wake up fully into them.
Wake.
Floral duvets dragged over our heads, hidden from the dull daylight.
I always awake before you, like my body senses the movements
of your pouting, cracked lips and grinding teeth.
All is worth the mornings of scraping my fingerprints over your cuticles.
-A.
February 9, 2012
Sapphire
I’m not quite sure of what I am,
though this education should probably know.
Presumably attached to the finger of a wealthy power suit,
studied business management at Kent university,
smashed constantly against a fountain pen,
writing checks, signing your redundancy package.
She’ll leave me on the train one day,
the 10:42 to Manchester that she was late for.
I loosened and I slipped away so easily
for that life of carriage adventures.
-A.
February 9, 2012
Untitled #5
Whenever we hear a quote in a movie that I want you to take notice of, I will squeeze your hand harder and kiss your brain.
-A.
February 8, 2012
Function #1
You said to me,
this is what it will be like in three years time,
passcode,
unlock,
brightened,
while the floor was vibrating,
and my spine ached,
and my eyes were tired,
but time is just semantics,
and future is only relevant to choice,
make of it what you will,
you choose, I choose
numb fingers,
three-parters,
the long walls of backlighted text,
thank you, thank you, thank you.
-A.
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