Tag Archives: bitterness

State of Independence

Poems 07/12/2011 Comments: 2

I performed this at Word! Leicester in March 2011

Thanks to the wonderful Keith Allot for the filming
and Polly Tuckett for the inspiration.

 

 

State of Independence

 

They all think I’m mad. I’m mad with rage.

Inside I’m gnashing, roaring, savage, rabid. I could bite. I could bite the hand that feeds me. Yes you. I could bite you if you look at me like that once more,

pity, disgust, flicker across your face. You think I don’t see it. I’m not blind.

I’m not stupid. I could bite myself. I do sometimes, at night, when it’s dark and I’m alone.

I bite my gout ridden pustule infested raw red distended ugly knuckles. I am ugly.

You tell me… what I should do.

You tell me… how I should behave.

You tell me… I’m lucky, all things considered.

You tell me… it’s all relative.

You tell me… I should count my blessings.

You tell me… you know what’s best for me.

You tell me… how I should feel.

I’m asking you, how would you know, any of you, how I should feel? How I feel?

How I want to feel?

pissshitbuggerfuck under my breath feels good feels bad feels good

never the ‘C’ word aloud say it in my mind roll it around my mouth enjoy its power

to shock me to shock you feel its hard ‘c’ back of tongue against molars kill carnal clatter

grunt the ‘u’ like a man like a brute ‘n’ mean hard nudge in the ribs

‘t’ saliva spit that’ll shut you all up put an end to it

tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock

doo dee dah doo dee dah

doo dee dah doo dee dah

doo dee dah doo dee dah

 ba dah ba dah

 diddle a ba dah!

3.10pm time… for wine…

 I favour a merlot, a Rioja, a Cabernet Sauvignon, quite like Argentinian,

I like the ones on offer, under a fiver, two for three, buy six get one free, being a pensioner

I consider my expenditure, I need to be careful.

I sip I glug I sip

slip into a good time… a faraway time… a long ago time… free of pain of worry of madness.

 John Jnr. He’s a yank. I am tall, willow, lithe of limb. He dresses me in overalls, boots.

I fit his boots. My feet, my big feet root me. I don’t mind- we laugh. He is taller.

Jacket, leather, tan, fur at the chin, weighs heavy. Helmet smells of sweat, sweet.

Goggles trap a stray tress of auburn. He moves close untangles and tangled we kiss.

Mint, gum he calls it, yum I think. Brings me stockings. Wendy eats one. Bitch!

I see the toe disappearing down her greedy gullet, grab… pull…

she heaves, I retrieve, slimy, destroyed. Don’t worry he says. I have more.

I want more.

I fly with him in my mind.

We take off in violent thrum, tinnitus hum and whine, we climb and soar.

I fly. I am free. I look upon the world kindly. I love everybody. I am young.


Octogenarians [3]

Poems 05/08/2011 Leave a comment

 

They whittle, they rive,

they wriggle, they writhe

and they whine to me-

we’re not what we used to be…

 

They self harm, attacking

dried-sticks of limbs

on a disgruntled whim

as they fade away.

 

Can’t cope with the fading hope.

No over-riding

the slippery slide

to mortality.

 

Shedding snow-flake skin,

it carpets, white,

at their feet

as they sit, dessicating.

 


Did She?

Poems 28/03/2011 1 Comment

Another inspired by one of Jean Binta Breeze’s classes…

 

Did she spend years as an art school student

working her arse off in bars for peanuts

just to be called an overhead?

Part of a process with a price on her forehead,

a cost to be slashed, a dream to be thwarted,

reduced to nothing but a figure in a column

of a cashflow forecast?

 

Did she spend years learning her trade

working her arse off for the company’s gain

just to be called an overhead?

Trawling through markets in down at heel countries,

staring at faces in sweat shop factories,

ending up the wrong side of value added

in a consultants report?

 

Did she spend years as an overtime scivvy

working her arse off forgetting life’s for living

just to be called an overhead?

Neglecting relationships lost for conversation,

forgetting birthdays, warning sign oblivion,

no more than a statistic in the new divorce figures

down the registry office?

 

Did she spend years sacrificing home life

working her arse off to repay the mortgage

just to be called an overhead?

Missing nativities and sports day contests,

good night kisses and family breakfasts

to end up a name on the redundancy list

in the minutes of the AGM?

 

Out for the Count

Poems 08/03/2011 Comments: 3

While I’m driving I often imagine
a flick of the wrist
and just piling in
to the oncoming traffic.
I am so selfish.
No more self analysis.
No more coping strategies.
No more bloody mea culpa
or sodding bloody hubris.
No more starting again.
No more counting to ten.
Just an end.
Out for the count.

I’m not angry.
No, that’s not true.
I’m not angry with you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
The way I moved through
to pastures new
without a backward look
makes me feel sick.
Not even a matter
of the grass being greener,
obvious to all I was on to a loser.
The novelty factor- a cheap thrill
for the hedonist
with no willpower.

I’m not dissatisfied.
No, that’s not true.
I’m not dissatisfied with you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
I hate being fifty
the invisibility
that comes with gaining
your first half century.
At least the second has a certain kudos,
something to look forward to I guess.
I need to discover a new set of spells
for the old ones have sure as hell
lost their potency.
Perhaps there are schemes,
Government funded, I can enrol on.
How to make the most of
raging hormones…

I’m not unhappy.
No, that’s not true.
I’m not unhappy with you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
I tire of the endless fight
and the solitary ride.
The lonely nights
waiting for children
taking more freedom
than I wish to give them.
Using all my persuasive skills
finely honed over the years
to pick up towels
from bathroom floors;
Management teams,
and buyers whims,
deadline completion
and budget revision;
Fading parents
who I love dearly
but who weary me
with their constant need
for my attention.

I don’t regret.
No, that’s not true.
I don’t regret you.
But as for my behaviour…
that’s another story altogether.
I don’t regret
finding you
after all these years,
though the memories
are a complex mix of
emotions stirred,
rising from an abyss
that for good reason
time warned should be left in peace.
But when did I ever listen
to advice?

While I’m driving I often imagine
a muzzle pressed into my temple,
the soft squeeze of a metal trigger,
as the remains of my brains splatter
the black leather interior.
I am so selfish.
No more self analysis.
No more coping strategies.
No more bloody mea culpa
or sodding bloody hubris.
No more starting again.
No more counting to ten.
Just an end.
Out for the count.

Not Like Me

Poems 07/03/2011 Leave a comment

 

She was always a cold fish,

your auntie…

 

May’ve been a different

kettle of fish altogether

if she’d managed to have a baby

of her own.

She’d have understood

that nothing’s ever perfect,

bloody mess and sweat,

your own body posessed,

pushing and shoving

with all the effort.

But it wasn’t to be…

 

Shame really…

 

She never talked about it

never once said who was at fault

your uncle or her?

No one ever knew…

And I never asked her,

never felt I could.

Well you wouldn’t would you…

Like butter wouldn’t melt,

always smiling sweetly.

 

Oh what wouldn’t I give

to know what that smile hid?

 

I think it was your auntie

never wanted to get dirty,

‘cause that’s what sex is all about

… really.

Always felt sorry for her

with her perfect home and

pots of money,

expensive dresses,

different sets of dishes

for breakfast, dinner and tea.

 

She looked down on us.

 

But when push came to shove

 

she couldn’t have a baby.

 

Not like me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


Victim

Poems 28/01/2011 Comments: 2

you…

yeah you.

which one of us?

does it matter?

now we’re gone

we’re all the same?

uhuh.

thanks.

wish I knew

what it was all about.

you and me too.

wish I knew now

what I thought I knew

then.

when?

forever.

for an intelligent person

you’re not actually

that clever.

wish I’d been proved

wrong.

wish I’d not been proved

right

so much poured into

so little.

huh?

so much pain

for so little gain.

you’ve lost me now.

such a bloody waste

of so much energy.

sorry.

I’m still angry

yeah I see.

it’s all so

arbitrary.

don’t you think

you were chosen?

sorry?

our perfect little victim?

 

 

 

 

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