Red Balloon

The balloon left without me.
It was so big.
The green silk flapped in the air and disappeared for ever.

I am stuck in this grey land.
My head leaking.

I catch it in red pen on my arms.
It does not wash off.

That makes me laugh.
I am the message.

I am telling you what is lost.
What I am planning.

You choose not to see.

I look around for the revolver.
The one you loaded and handed to me.

I miss it.
I miss you.

The light fades and the box rattles in the corner.
Empty teeth.
Crumbling bones.
Stained tongue.

I watch the fuses and pass the night.

The men come and go on the stairs.
They no longer scare me.
They cannot do any worse than what has been done before.

But it’s better.
That’s what they say.

Your hair is nice.

I do not tell them it is better because now I want nothing.

That my scalp is raw.

I chew and rock on the bathroom floor.
Back and forth. Back and forth.

Like the girl who puts sweeteners in her spearmint tea.
Who fills up pages in her little book.

At least she has something left to fill the hunger.

I look at my arms and measure my jaw with my fingers.

Can I build a balloon out of red words and spent bullets.

Prayer Card

The church has run out of holy water again.
I push my finger into the empty vessel
Trying to mop up the vestiges of good luck.

It is as dry as ash.

The supermarket never runs out of spirit.

I buy it in cans.

Vodka. Gin. Whiskey.
A splash of fizzy water.

I like the cans.
The colours of the words.
The bubbles of weddings and birthdays.

An accompaniment to life.
Not a casket full of liquor and pills.

I chat with the cashier
All very dainty.

I doubt she can imagine my bathroom.
The tiles. Kitchen paper. Lemon cleaner.

I am all mixed up in there.
But don’t sparkle like a spritzer.

The bigger bottles tantalize.
The fonts of despair.

I know if I touch them they will haunt me. Finish me.

‘Drink me, Drink me’

Impossible to refuse the only voice left.

I look around.
Trying to hear Alice.
Felder.
You.

But today is as empty as the church stoup.
There is no one left to put a penny in the bathroom door and fish me out.

My head sinks down and down into the cold and wet of my own exodus.

I let it fall like my prayer card dripping off the wall.

Euclid

I found your house.
The one on Euclid.

Someone sold it for you.
You wouldn’t have met her.
You wouldn’t have known how much the next people paid.

($169,000)

I look at the house.
Your house.
I see us walking up the drive.
Popcorn and wine.

Something unspoken.

You do not have a penny in your pocket.
You do not know that I have kept you in mine.
Treasured you and hated you.

You have become everyone since.
I find you in every place I look for myself.

I try and shake away your red hair and tiny body but all I have left is a thousand pictures.

They start with a purple bike and a bowl of strawberries.
Like a flip-book they measure a face lost.
Eyes in panic. Lips in question. A dialogue.

‘I can take you there.
But I cannot bring you back.’

I need to talk to you.
I need to say that it is not fair.
How I became the older one.

I drink hot chocolate and my throat aches.
The powder burnt the house again.
The fumes made me gag and bleed.
They leave me raw.

I have a terrible feeling that the explosion inside of me will blow up the rubbish bins that all the families use.

I stand by the window choking.
I must not hurt anybody else.

The eyes.
There is not much left in there.
They are so heavy and yet they cannot be closed.

If I close my eyes I might miss you.

I am telling you all these things I never said.
Between the wine and the popcorn.

When I find you there will be no need for words.

I will rest my head upon your shoulder
And finally I will sleep.

Felder Cross

I see his trousers.
The piss stain marking out the map of his world.
Why do I always have to feel the piss too.
Getting cold. Sticking to his skin.

The little smile of triumph on his face.

It’s like an affinity.
Like a hundred birds on the water and all I can see is the empty bottle bobbing around in the scum.
The light dancing off its corners like magic.

I keep my head down.
But I see the sign.

‘Flowers and Accessories for All Occasions’
Right next to the drive through for the big black cars.

I wonder if it’s true.
If one day I will receive a bouquet with ‘congratulations you’re still alive’

I think about buying some red and yellow petals.
But remember I cannot tolerate colour.
Not even in my food.
It makes me fidget.

It makes me screw up the pictures you sent and throw them in the black bag.
The endless bags which I dispose of without mention.

When it is dark again I dare to reclaim the broken pictures.
I iron them on the kitchen counter.
Sobbing.
I cannot lose any part of you.

I iron the creases out with all the care and love left inside of me.
The smell of melting ink makes my nose drip.

I make it to the building where I have to be today.
I sit in the chair but I can’t remember where I am.

I leave and I am met by a boy called Felder Cross.
He has the most magnificent face.
And he says to me with the sun arcing his hair –

Remember god is mindful of you too.

Alice and The Candle

I take Alice to the church.
She is my only friend.

Although I only hear her in my head.
And I only speak to her in my dreams.

The red lady pays ten pence for a candle and kneels.
A small price to pay for a big guarantee.

I keep my pennies in my purse.

The man in the hat chases up the aisle saying
I love you so much.

This is why I rarely leave the house.

When they have gone Alice rests her hand on my head.
She lets me cry a pool of tears and we float in it together.
The salt eating into the holes in our skin.
Quelling the fire.
Like kisses.

We drift in the water until the red lady’s candle burns out.
Then all I can feel is the wooden seat.
The cold in my breath.
The cold inside no blanket can warm.

For a moment the clock ticks and I hear voices outside.
I look around me.

Scared.

Alice is so small she can be blown away like a pencil shaving.

I often wonder if she is there at all.

The Universal Key

The radio that makes no words hums in the bathroom.

They will come with the yellow key.
They will figure me out.

I lie on the floor holding my breath.
Squeezing my eyes shut.

I don’t exist. I don’t exist. I don’t exist.

I wish my body out of this room.
Put it upon a train.
Send it away to some place full of light and feeling.

I hear feet on the stairs.
The hollow rumble of life going on outside me.

I drown out the stress of the radio waves by grinding my teeth.

I hate that I cannot switch it off.
That I need it.
Dead batteries and no reception.

All the good people are gone.
The one’s with the juicy stories.

They left and now I can’t find myself.

I hit myself on the head with the back of my hand.

The feet get louder and are joined up with voices.
I hear a hand approaching the glass.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Are you there?

Tea and Biscuits

I dispose of myself bag by bag.
Cell by cell.

I don’t own anything from before the war.
I no longer fight the good fight.
I no longer can.

Confrontation wins war.
Not care. Not love. Not kindness.

I cannot confront myself.
I cannot stomach a war.
And yet I cannot be kind.

I can’t think of anyone else who would do this he said.
But it was too late.
They already had.
Quietly.
Behind the safety of enemy lines.

All I want is a cup of tea.
Maybe a biscuit.
A warm house to sit in.

The bags tie up easily although I struggle to carry them out.
They weigh as much as my body.
They weigh as much as me.

If I have nothing left then no more can be lost.

Nobody sees me dispose of myself after dark.
Nobody sees my feet tremble over the yellow lines.
My arms buckle.
My head spin.

I hear voices behind me and above me.
I am no longer sure if they belong to you.
There is so much time between callings that I have forgotten who you are.

There will be no letter sent home.
There is no home.
No people waiting.

I feel the weight of that.

My body.
3 am.
Blinking in the light I have to put on.

A light by which I can see every weapon of my war.
A light which does not forgive me and the murder I have caused.