The Story at Her Feet

It is this place inside. The one with the candles. That pins the prayer card to the wall. Crust of blood by crust of blood I am glued together. The milk in the grocery bag bumps my leg. I sit and watch her. The flame is not safe by her feet. It may catch the flowers alight. But it is not a place where you can change the order of divinity. You must sit if not transfixed inert. You must not question the order of silence. There is so much that I don’t remember and too much that I do. Missing chunks of time that I no longer own but which possess me. Walking from the garage to the house with a little radio. Rubbing my knuckles on the wall. Wishing I could live in the tyres and the smell of petrol. There has always been fire in this story. Crust of blood by crust of blood I am glued together. The flesh of my time sits in a file of letters waiting to be turned to ash. Ash that I will mix with stoup water and pass over my head. A new powder to drip through my hair fall on the page mix with ink become the story at her feet.

To Give. To Catch

Sound travels behind me. Not in waves. That is too soft. In pebbles. In baskets. They knock me on the back of the head when I stop. The man with no teeth tells me to wipe the hair from my face and I do. He tries to give me seven pence. To help me. I say no. I’m fine. The seven pennies held in his hand jingle like medals. Full of sunshine. It is strange having this guard of misfits watching over me. Speedy Guy keeping crazy neighbour lady off my doorstep. Cashier lady suggesting juice instead. Because it’s hot. Behind the counter man saying haven’t you been here before. I think. I never left. But smile and say have a good day too. I listen for feet at the door. Lay still. In the dark. They are coming. I know. In the kitchen cupboard lays the more certain ways. In the bag at the end of the bed a plan. An act of conjuring. Get back the face. The arm. The people with stunning teeth who used to say I will take you home. Their words come to me. Crossing the door frame. Running from crazy neighbour lady. Standing in line buying the same things that I am running from. And it hits me. In the back of the head. In the back of my heart. In baskets. Pebbles. Not soft. Like waves. Sound catches up with me from behind.

Cardboard Letters

I stole the little cardboard letters from the small person school. Hid them in my socks took them home to the room where everything special was hidden in a small box from a new pair of shoes. £3. Two sizes too small. But they shone and made me smile. I am still small. I stand in the kitchen and gag. Hard to stomach this big person world. The truck I need is outside. My door has a wedge underneath. I don’t make enough noise for the people in green trousers to hear me. Seems I always just miss salvation or something close. It is stuck under the bed in the shoe box and eroded like my feet. Keep quiet. Maintain your breath. Cause us no trouble and we will brush you away like cardboard dust. Long forgotten. Much easier for us. And for you. Thank you. I hate you. It is so quiet behind this door. Under this bed. Feet tucked into calculations and ink. The blood from my nose drips onto my toast. There is no one to tell. No one to believe. I wish it would happen quicker. I wish I could be sure. I wish I could stand at the top of the stairs and scream like her. Like the person who shows the erosion inside. She knows. She knows. No one can see you going if you put a wedge in your mouth and then scream. I wish. I wish I wasn’t stupid enough to make a list for the next day. There is a bilious consistency to my omissions. I am keeping the letters under the bed. Hiding the words and the pictures. Keeping small like Alice in the chequered hall. Should I swallow or bite. I scatter the cardboard letters and it keeps my heart alive. My head. I don’t think it left the small person school.

I Miss Yesterday

I miss yesterday. Any day is better than this day.
This moment will never happen again. It will never move forward. Or back.
I trawl the pavements for empty packets. As if somebody else’s trash dust is deadlier than mine. There is no end for people like me. We demise. We fall. We never recover. Heads so wet there are no memories of when. What was that question. That trouble. There is no recollection of why you are hunting for an end at all.
Not waving. Not drowning. People tired of watching you do neither. Calling out for something. Something you can’t put your finger on. Can’t name. The thing that holds you by the throat and then forces you to breathe. Cry silently. Hold your head. Just stop stop stop. It seems so simple. Somebody make me stop. All this waving. This drowning. It tires me out too. Behind the curtains. Over the noise of the TV. Such a simple request but when you lose the words, you lose the right to ask.
Morning comes. Always a surprise. It feels so unnecessary. So undeserved. So pitifully filthy. The next day should be the treasure. The opportunity. The thing you seek. But around my mouth is the trail of yesterdays hunt. Around my bed the filthy plastic. And tumbling from my throat are the words – I miss yesterday. Any day is better than this day.

My Little Red Box

I am a strange room of soft toys, spoons and splitters.
A little temple of doom with soft linings - linings which don’t quite catch my fall however hard I grip them.
I look around. Try to follow the thread of myself. Find the story which lies dormant.
Try to think of what another pair of eyes will see.
Uncle Bill on the fridge. A duck. A rodent. A few words.
The face of the only person left who still loves me.
My stomach falls. At the pestle. At the little red box.
To prepare and to prepare and to prepare.
My hand gives over the money to the woman who calls me love.
Everybody knows and nobody knows.
I see the people who pray in red T-shirts. They make me think of my little red box and what I will put inside it. I watch them from up above in the coffee shop window. I prefer to sit upstairs now. I look down and see them take the hand of a man. And I so ache. I so want it to be my hand. My hand sits charred around a cold cup of coffee. Idle on a pile of words. Today’s news.
The man laughs when they leave. Maybe he wasted their prayer.
I go back to my room.
The boxes.
Red box. Key in red socks.
Blue box. Key in blue socks.
You have to have a system.
As I turn each lock I know the system of this strange room whittles me away. A key which makes no noise as it falls onto thick beige carpet.
A story locked in boxes. Wasted words. Forgotten ideas.
But you do not need to keep the pages to remember the book.
It rests in you. Larger than the toys. The spoons and the splitters.
It will never get lost in a little red tin.

'There's Opulence Basie'

In the end all the opulence will be floating in the scum. I can’t swallow at the thought of you in one of the suitcases floating by. I catch the tears in the tissue. Hear the end of time. It is deafening. I never thought I would be the one left in the golf shoes. The one who walks on blood. I wait for the knock. The car. The man in my room. I wait for you and know I am only half alive. Try not to think too much. I rode the bike in the empty house too. I sucked peaches waiting for a grown up to come. As you wait you lose the need. Lose being little. Lose the chance to be grown. Life is empty swimming pools. Dirt you wade through. Lines you say but don’t believe. I will always wait. I will always walk. This war will never see me close my eyes.

My Greatest Weapon

The porcelain is cool against my belly
I see him in my eyes
I see all of you in there
You all claimed a piece of me
But whilst you believe you have stolen me
I have been collecting
In the darkness over the sink pieces of me drip drip dripping away into a bath of tranquillity into a bath of creation and evolution
A place where I can alter theft from taking into receiving
A place where I can embroider every pair of eyes onto my flesh
Quietly stitching myself together until I become strong
Until my lungs are full enough to whisper
This is what I am
My proud flesh
You who destroyed me murdered me have given me the greatest weapon
And I use it drip drip drip whilst you think I am gone
Kind strangers builders believers they make me real
They give me feeling
And the fondness in their eyes cools my head settles my belly
And one day one day soon my flesh will release you all
I will smooth the stitches from my eyes
And in the mirror the only thing left will be me.

The Scrolls At My Feet

The scrolls fall at my feet
I trace them with the edge of my shoe
The line is too fine so I crouch and touch the patterns with my fingers
I smile as the loops take me back to the start over and over again
so clear so definite so sweet
The sun plays out a path of where I need to be
Where I need to go
I stand up
Lose my footing a little
Dust the stones from my shoe and walk on
Back to the beige place
Back to the place where all lines are lost
Back to the blue bed were nothing switches off
Where circles become triangles which poke you in the back
Squares which kick you into remembering
Nets which steal your dreams and tie up the scrolls so in the morning you don’t remember the pattern you need to follow
But six o’clock comes and the sun shines again
There are new scrolls to be found with your feet
So I knock the dust from my eyes smooth down my face wipe up my hair and go hunting
hunting for the patterns the keys the right path at my feet.

Erratic and Unpredictable

Erratic and unpredictable
I kept the page
Took a picture
The chaos patterns are clear as spiders chasing me never stopping never shaking off fingers sticky and relentless like a eucharist every day at 10 but no amen.
Ringing up in my head the till a total a calculation
My shopping does not register an omen of sorts bananas crackers nuts
I shake the hand of another man
I know in three days I will regret it but the days empty out like disposable names I have to catch them in somebody’s hands I keep his handshake don’t wash it off let it carry on my food my coffee my face I try to find the words in my shoes like the holes will heal the light stop shining through me luminous terrifying as the 3am gunshots
The people who summed me up are gone now I fracture myself rip myself into tiny pieces and glue me to a page no name fits as it should no letter illuminates the picture
You can make anything a reality
But I am always the missed phone call the missed doorbell the missed opportunity
I would like to lick up the webs pin myself down
Erratic and unpredictable
But I know it was not true
All I am is plans accomplished liar consummate cheat a calculation of letters and words carefully balanced so the calls don’t get through and the doors stay unanswered. I am invisible like my shopping. An empty bag paid for not with money or kind. I would trade it all for Amen. Four letters. One word. A hand to shake the light and keep me from the dirt.