After Crashing

9AM the morning after,

Didn’t go to bed ’til 3.

Panda eyes, bird’s nest for hair,

Head as fucked up as can be.

Canvas for a map of faded linen,

Tattooed by soft caress upon a cheek.

That pungent love sweet scent.

A tequila that cannot feel for you

The way you wish it could.

Surrender to its bitter-sweet embrace,

Your unrequited love.

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Obsession

Rap. Rap. Rap. 

She isn’t answering the door. I trample the roses going round to the back to get in. The kitchen lights are on, the fridge hums but all is hushed. In the living room the TV mimes In The Night Garden. Creeping, cloying cold, a whisper in the dark. Evidence of her everywhere. A tap half shut. 

Drip. Drip. Drip. 

Nudge it shut, welcome the silence. But it’s not silent, is it? Not so clean. The cacophony of scents violates my nostrils, the lingering bass-toned bitterness of rich coffee, the harsh clash of bleach. I follow the remnants of some flower-touched musk up the curve of the stairs. Her scent contaminates my pure, fresh skin. Let her noise intrude upon my silence, everything has its moment. 

Creak. Creak. Creak. 

The landing is long, stretches out like the red carpet she loves so much. Fawns for. Prostitutes herself for the stutter of shutters, bursts of pearly light, like a discharging machine gun. Mowed down by media tyranny. Conquered by the press. Displaying her back for the world so they too can memorise the constellations her freckles form. Movies. Advertising. Magazines. The door hangs open, an invitation. How did she know? Has she followed me as I’ve followed her? Darkness interrupted. The seconds blink into being, cast a green glow across her, encased in the warmth of bed. Catches the gold of her hair, the slope of her nose, the curve of a lip, a jaw, the expanse of a long pale neck. Counts towards the twilight hours. The beginning of a new world. My hand shakes as I crave to touch, reach towards those ever-tempting locks. Mine. Breath whooshes. I bathe in this moment.

“Mama?” 

Freeze. The door creaks where it was silent at my touch. Snatch my hand back as the knowledge of my intention burns. Feel my face cast a burst of heat across the room, feel her stir and shift away, repelled by the extra warmth. Light from the hall casts a shadow on the wall, clutching at a bear. Panic rises, catches in my throat, like a cricket rests on my adam’s apple. Chirps. Then comes the burst of previously unseen clarity. Breaks through the mud of my mind. Add it up. Add it up! Think. And then it slips into place, just as my hand slips into the space in my pocket where I know the chloroform will be. Buy one get one free. Only fun-sized. I can’t believe she hid this from me. Whored herself out to a vapid fan, no doubt. But I will forgive her that, once we are home together.

I love her. 

Forever.

The Artist’s Lament

An endless stretch of grey. 

Deep, dark, dirt. 

Sucking mud. Clutches at a man’s boots,

And won’t let go. Tries to save him, to stop the endless forward push, 

To the inevitable ruddy report before all goes black. 

In the grey wasteland silence hangs, a silver thread grasping at the dark,

At the quiet cold, while the whistles and the bombs

Dominate the day. 

The uniforms on both sides a wash of grey.

What was brown faded.

Coated in harsh, cloying mud, dries pale. Cracks, 

Like their officers’ reserve. 

Running, running, running, running, 

Running until they fall.

Through pitted earth, over tangled limbs; ally, enemy, human.

Rolling tide of red, red the earth neglects to swallow, 

Bloated by the bloody blood-feast, 

Can not defeat the greyness of it all.

The hopeless, pitiless, soulless shades,

Of cold, cold grey.

Aliens

Earth. An alien world.

Seven billion ‘citizens’, seven million chameleons.

A Vetruvian society, regardless of race.

Cultural conformity. Internal oppression.

What Declaration? What Rights?

Normality.

Nice beer. Nice tits. Nice car.

Matthew Shepard, Francois Chenu. 

Admiral Duncan sinking with his seventy crew.

Does that sound like acceptance to you?

They promised love.

A confessional, a murder.

A heart grown cold in cloying earth.

No marker. Out of sight, out of mind.

Abomination.

The end of everything. The end of us.

So much for love.

Criminal in seventy-five nations.

Homosocial. Homosexual. Homo sapiens.