broken

 

broken

 

after the party

where something had happened

something in a cupboard some permission

something that made him think his luck was in

he walks her home in the rain

walking together alone

up the long slow hill of Ashby Lane

him wanting his end of the unspoken bargain

to begin   her wandering to the end of her skin

 

a passing car’s headlights picks them out

the sudden change of size   then gone  

then the slow turning turning away   

of the unseen driver’s eyes 

     

suddenly she too wants it done with

she can’t explain can’t put it into words

the submission

she’s falling under the wheels again

letting him lead her on

towards the slow uncoiling of humiliation

where she has to pay out enough rope

something is to be given   taken

through a gate   down a garden path

half-lit under trees   down on her already

tattered coat spread beneath them   

underneath them the cold slippery cement

of somebody’s property   somebody’s dream

some other family’s sleeping lamentable darkness

they sell themselves   each other   cheaply   as broken

his eyes are shut tight      hers are wide open   starless

Souvenir

Souvenir

 

There is upstairs in the spare room

in a cupboard upon a shelf

out of reach and gathering dust

a broken jar

which he can no longer fill

with salves such as pity, love, hope or self

 

The skin and what is within is dry and cracked,

the conscience flaked, peeled away, still

the view from the window is of a raw sky

bloody   flayed   glorious    of and in itself 

on bright days

 

On bright days

This self she is supposed to have

where is it?

It comes mostly on bright days

when her mind is content

to be itself in her body   a foot within a shoe

with room to wriggle the toes  

to take a step forward

On bright days

no shadows on the wall of the ordinary skin

that which she has always been wrapped in

broken and bound like a Chinese foot

sliced and scarred  like a circumcision

a rare flower torn out at the root

that somehow survives

the self she has been promised

by all those other selves that surround her

those clean-cut sharp-edged provocations

she’s a spoon in a drawer full of knives

we all want to be knives

This self she has promised herself

a present that she has carefully wrapped

written and erased

on parchment   each layer a palimpsest

a present that is yet come   yet to be   yet to be opened

in a year full of Januaries   of doors warped shut

bending   of beginnings disguised as endings

On bright days

when words fit more comfortably in the mouth   on the tongue

when looking forward tastes more hopeful than looking back

and what could be said could be sung  

The folding

 

The folding

 

She calls him out   into the garden

it’s late afternoon   early autumn   sunshine

two sheets   two duvet covers   two pillow cases

sailing in the warm breeze held aloft by wooden clothes line props

two peaceful fully-rigged galleons on untroubled seas

one set a fading red   the other white stained pink

against a cloudless blue sky

 

These are the steps to the dance, the folding:

 

she walks towards him arms held out

an embrace or an invitation to a fight

their eyes stare into these possibilities

he looks away first   Always him

then the exchange of corners   a little clumsy

with the touch of skin against skin   the intimacies 

of strangers   of familiarity   of fingers   lingers

the music the colour of original sin

he steps away steps back pulling the sheet taut

now they are fish caught on a line   hooked

frozen   wanting to tear themselves free

 

Yet somehow it seems to them both   both sweet and sour

this favourite day   these minutes   the fleeting seconds   at this hour

mirror

mirror

  

life is never really shared

like a small room with too much furniture

the impressive view tucked behind the curtains

the door locked with no way out

there’s little air to breathe   

mind the gap

the walls are adorned with other people

they come and go   only you stay    only   you stay

they’re crammed into such a cramped space

all talking at the same time

all asking the same question

and they all bring you the same gift

they tell you it’s a window

that it lets in the light

and when they smile you smile too 

evidence

 evidence

 

Oct ’73 written on the back

back then it’s another me that’s been

been left out in the rain, now  

sloughed, an old skin I’d walked around in

inside out   shy to light   exposed

tight fitting too thin on a frame

angular and sharp-boned

then slack   had enough

wanted to give it back – gone

 

others came seeking themselves

in cut and paste memories in which he plays

a bit part   uncredited   not quite a cameo   yet

there are fingerprints   DNA

the necessary narrative fallacy

a chalk outline on the floor

a photograph   but

nobody

the unconsoled

 

the unconsoled (an extract)

a room mid-morning

there’s a monitor a sofa a bay window

with double glazing and other religions

neighbours’ houses back-lit a tree looms

a woman comes in

a man follows

they dance they argue they simulate sex

they sit on the sofa and watch Netflix   

finger food   surf   monthly installments

the audience become restless muttering

cough   a few stand up to leave

this in itself becomes a performance

a phone rings offstage goes on ringing

unanswered

a child begins to cry in the auditorium

unconsoled ...