11 December 2016

Nod polite nice.
No one asked for me to be
here tonight
+ now will I watch the
flaunts of a girl
both thin and nice
and topped with drink.

And I’ll smile along.
And charade good cheer.

My kind wasn’t meant to be seen.
I’m a writer and my face
was meant behind
paper + ink.

Lord help me find
acceptance for the
things I cannot change.

Galway Arms (WIP)

Cra-shi-ng glass
+ in Chicago here
I stand as
Waterloo plays
in the speakers

Terry of Galway
stands proud as
the music abounds
the walls, bouncing
around + fills
empty hearts to
something much more

My how time
is nice.
All of the Éirinn family
stands here
home on Sunday night.

7 December 2016

The light coloured wind
softens the blow against body
meeting world.

To the right is Chicago in springtime,
with Canadian salutations sending
their floral musk across the Michigan,
its scent changing and collecting
the pollution it meets along its way.

To the left
are the rises and falls
that separate Northern England
from Alba true.

In either direction
the trains howl and slowly
submit to the power of
man against machine.

Location is relative.

Christmas tree lights
and music nice –
what is earthly death
here is
Arctic revival
in another world,
another time.

6 December 2016

He quoted my girlish laugh,
I thought of his mannish fat.

He tested my muscles
and proved proud that his
were indeed bigger, as if
biological norm was a success
he had personally achieved.

I hated his face,
I despised his touch
and inability to outwit
a decade younger girl.

Politeness I maintained,
as smile dressed disdain.

Counting the minutes down
until it would have been
respectful enough to leave.

4 December 2016

Bones which knew no past existence
declare their right to life,
with nails and acid
that deteriorate cartilage guilt-free,
radiating from the extremes
to the buried heart within.

Sleep bypasses.
Quite rightly so.
An intelligent guest who
knows its better to enter
a peaceful, quiet home instead
of this toy soldier war-zone.

I cast no blame;
utter apologies
to my appendages
’til turmoil is
achieved in the head.

Walking is a past dream,
unsure if the life which
dreamt it was even mine.

My bones, dissent.
They are not mine.
They have seceded this Union,
an agreement in the past
that had been perfectly fine.

Toss and turn on the back which is still.
The sunrise is overrated: I see its
colours drench my walls.

Traffic hums,
my body still burns.
Shipping forecasts appear
and submerge.

When it rains it pours
and when it pours it
pours acid.
A new wrinkle on my face has
made itself cosy and warm.

At least someone is content
and has won from this war.