A Thorn In The Side

A thorn catches in the tie around my neck
I am back in the place where warmth is hard to find
The sharp doesn’t sting
Or draw blood
Not any more
I place a napkin around my fingers and pull
My fingers are tough
Hard
Resistant
The bag of knots waits for me
It was pushed back
Next to the beer can
I pick up a stick and grapple for it
The stick leaves a trace of wood on my skin
It rests underneath the smell of sugar and incense
Seven hours outside
Away from the empty of beige
Away from the softness of beige
It smells strange here
Like sickness
Catching us up
Spidering its way up the elevator shaft
Killing us
Insidiously
Almost without action
In the beige place people jump
He jumped
Because the tie didn’t work
Now every time he takes a piss
He will remember the second he opened the window
And jumped
The limp will last much longer than that second
Maybe we jump to find life
Not to kill it
Not like this place kills life
Kills us
I think of the men with nothing
Holding each others hands in the alley
They feel cold
They warm each other
They are not scared of the filth
Not like these people of care
Swathed in rubber gloves
They will never see
It is not despair that passes through skin
But life
Hope

Tiny hands rest on the back of the train seats
Waiting for the alley or the gloves
Skin is a fresh blanket waiting to be fucked on
Or loved

Rocks in the water
Powder in my veins
I am alive and pulling thorns from my skin
A napkin in the pocket to wipe away the dust
I will hold your hand
I am not afraid.

No Place Like Home

I am sat on the train
But I am not moving
Not inside
Inside
I am going back to the beige place
The place where spilt sauce leaves me lying in the bath
Face down
Gobbling bubbles
Of emptiness
Of nothing
Nothing worth breathing for any way
I put together pieces of the place I am in

windows (which open)
kettles (which boil)
phones (which dial out)

Keys

Speedy guy walks hunched and lumbering on his walking frame
He jumped
To stop
It
That thing
That thing
I feel it too
In my head
On my face
In the supermarket aisle which no longer makes sense
In the hollow spaces of time unaccounted for
In the strange smell of home biting on my flesh.

The little girl holds the old man’s hand
He shows her the train driver’s door
He stoops
She cranes
All of this an adventure
He probably won’t see her turn ten
Turn twenty
Grow
Remember
Or forget

Maybe she will see the little girl one day
When she is sat in the wreckage of a train seat
Maybe the little girl will make her smile
Maybe the little girl will show her
That none of us have any place better to go.

Buying Alice

There is broken glass everywhere
A little pink shoe on the wall
I think I should pick the shoe up
Keep it safe
But maybe the little girl will come back
Some little girls do
Come back
I go to the place where there are colours
And crosses
Time puzzles
Hanging in one place
Wrapped up in the gift shop
I see how he digs the hole in his side
Worries away the wound
Like an empty shoe
Looking for something
Looking for something
Possible
In my dream
Such a short dream
I buy your house
But it is empty inside
Without you
Without the things that made you
The green and red faded
Long since moved on
It is senseless
Trying to buy Alice
She will always be out of reach
Strawberry jam on the top shelf.
The leaves fly
Like glass in a tornado
Like a little girl skipping in one pink shoe.

The Equation of Love

The slivers of bark settle in my hair
They are felling the trees
Cutting off the branches
It is a different kind of dust
That settles
Gently
In my hair
On my coat
I go to the board
It says I will give you rest
A rest from heading down hill
A softer fall of powder
The lesson for today
Carries the weight of my number
37
I am inside it
Watching the reflections
The freak show
Rattling around in potions and candles burning out
I go to her
I smell the wishes like vapours tangled up in the blue of her dress
She holds them tight
Like she holds his beautiful little arms and pure flesh tight
I love the blue
I love her
The one who holds me tight and still lights wishes
For me
I love her

The little black cat crosses paths with the crow
Like an unbalanced equation.
I touch the cat
The crow flies away.

Rate of Knots

I wipe my dirty fingers on the wall
I can still feel the toilet water in my socks
On the backs of my leg
As safe as safe can be
She puts on gloves
To empty my bag
Like every penny I own will poison her
Make her like me
Or like me
It is good to be back
Legs dappled with water
In the place where people who don’t belong
Belong
Come together like a tribe
Holding fifty pence cups of tea
And papers from last Wednesday -
No need to keep up with the world
When it doesn’t keep up with you
I find
A face with a smile
Drawn by
Joshua Blue
A shopping list
Coriander
Onions (x5)
Ginger
Pannier
Tomatoes
A meal to make
A basket to carry it
A place to go home
My home is in a brown book of words
And a bag of knots
If I worry the ends
Stretch out the letters
Maybe my fingers will become clean
I lick up the brick dust
Smile at her fumbling
Fingers wrapped up
Looking for something which isn’t there
But is
In the words stuck together like filth
Cemented
It is my hands which need gloves
Sweet coriander and ginger spice
A recipe for something new
To wipe away this water
To still this rate of knots.

Locked In

I am outside
But I am locked in
Sullen
Like the rocks in my pockets
Holding me down
Keeping me moving
Dragging my feet
Drenched in time
In space
One step forward
Two steps back
A body raked over pins and filthy floors
I wish for the comfort of the bench
The love of powder
So clean
So bright
It is all of me
All of me that I trust
My lips are bruised with wasted time
Wasted words
My silence
My life
Waits amidst the thorns
waiting waiting like a station of the cross
I walk by
Do not look into the eyes of the deceivers
The ones that planted the rocks
Breath itself is a punch so brutal
When I cannot reach that thing I need
When I cannot be me
I sink inside
I disappear
I think I think
that
I have seen enough time pass.
I am outside
But I am locked in.

My Idea of Normal

I have been standing behind the wardrobe for 16 hours
1 am
pacing pacing pacing
The torch shone at my face
Beams of hatred
Vile wishes
I have lost everything
I have lost everything
I have lost myself
I wait under the bush
In the catastrophe bag
Tied up in knots
Thisistheworstchoice
Theworstchoice
Thisisnochoice
There is no rest
No safety
The bag is safe
The bench the cold juice the shakes
That is safe
Mine
Who I am
What I want
I will never speak again
For once the words have been spoken
I become lost
I will reclaim myself
Tomorrow
I will reclaim myself
My being
Tomorrow
I will become normal again
I will fill the bag so tightly
Savour every particle
Every granule
Scrub away from inside
These 111 filthy
Wasted days.

Bad Weather

I climb my way up the powder mountain
A zenith of being
Swallowed down in the hut
By the Pitch and Putt
Which is closed
Bad weather
I stand in the puddle
Next to the spent condom and soiled paper
The rain pours
Like a metronome
whattodowhattodo
Tick Toc time passes by
Passes me by
I hold onto its coat tails
Like chasing rabbit’s soft and dusty tail
Knowing no hole is big enough to fall down
Knowing no mirror is warped enough to make this look ok
I see what is real
In people’s eyes
In their hands holding their children a little tighter
I turn my back
Nothing matters but this
This tiny moment of being
I try to sit
But my limbs shake and wriggle
Like naughty children sitting through prayers
Words that make no sense but somehow fill your pockets
Make your feet drag
Your head sink
Your being drown
Sunken by the pouring rain
I look for things
A plan
But there is no tactic
All I know is this
I stand rooted to the hut
Stuck in bad weather

Golden Heart

I bought myself a golden heart
On a string of shiny beads
She picked silver
Carried away in a little blue box
We all watched
Empty as jars
I am picking up treasures
They make me warm
I hold them close like stories
Inside
Where no one can see
Or steal
A bag of buttons and a paper bottle
leaves flowers tags
Lest you forget your mum and dad
Lest they forget you
So much to find
So many letters
It burns my head
I sit in the porch
On the cool grey slabs
Close my eyes
Maybe the words have turned to flesh
I hold my face
Cradle my arms
There is much more to find
Picked up on pavements
Collected on walls
I know when I see it
I will believe
And all that is old will become new again.