Friday, 28 January 2011


This is home now,
thanks to the in-laws taking me in,
crwys and albany merge at the intersection
of this Welsh city
set aside for the English invasion.

Bore da, dear, as I step inside,
bore da is all I know,

behind me, S4C is mixing cultures,
discordant soup of language,
as I trail confusion up the stairs
to my girl's sister's bedroom of girl's
cliched ideals;

of draped 4-poster beds
- this without my sleeping beauty;
- no girl of Disney, mine;

and dolls house tucked beneath the bay,
its dinette set all set for guests,
- I haven't ate there yet.

But everywhere, the walls, the floor,
the stippled ceiling and the wooden drawers,
the curtains drawn against the sun,
that neon-accentuating sun - that pink!

even with the night outside and her quiet snores
against my ear, that pink! the darkness cannot cover.
That pink! that invades my dreams.

Classwork: Week 2: Childhood Memory

I kept blacking out, or at least it felt like that as there were sometimes what felt like hours between opening my eyes which were shut tight. And when I did open them it was all a blur. I think my sight was going bad by then, but the lady in blue was too near, I should've been able to see her properly, but I couldn't. Too many tears, they weren't even like teardrops anymore; it was just my eyes drowning in salty water, as I lay there looking up at shapes and colours, the daylight forcing its way in through the net in the window.

I couldn't see mum. She must've been behind me. I felt her holding me down though; I could only feel two things: her hands on my shoulders and the pain. I daren't look down. All I did was scream and throw my head around. If I screamed loud enough maybe the lady in blue would stop.

When my screaming stopped it just went black; a whiteness of pain down there, my throat sore... then darkness.

When I woke, mum was kissing me. I still hurt, but it was back to the normal hurt - not the changing-of-the-dressing kinda hurt.

Thursday, 27 January 2011

Going the Distance

fun and frolics in the movie language
of Hollywoodian clich├ęs,
her in San Fran and Going The
Distance, her man inside sets in New York, supposedly
a comedy for romantics, but I wasn’t laughing, no

no laughs out loud, mere smiles at scenes of inconsequence,
then heart murmurs at scenes of consequence:

internal: airport lobby, daytime,
over-the-shoulder goodbyes and a lack of waves because
waving is too formal a reminder of the ocean of space
and the waves all colliding in the meantime
but in slow motion because that’s how time is, thoughts floating out at sea,
not how time is when the waves are trickles in the sand.

external: airport entrance, daytime,
lost lips found on the carousel wheel round to each other
again, how new is a kiss that’s been missed as much as theirs?

skin is skin untouched before, an adventure
of fleeting meetings re-alighting and departing;
                        these actors
are acting and they act like they’re suffering. These actors
are actors relaying my story and they act all in love, in love
and in pain,
         internal: some room, some time,
it does not matter, all things will come as this has;
the carousel of their lives like this cannot go on,
                          but they’re just

always the airports, the long nights and the holding as though
the airport is tomorrow with the ocean bound to follow
with it’s waves of twisted heartstrings, always

sweet hellos they know
are sweeter for it and that they wouldn’t change it, no

but always the goodbyes and that decision that must be made
to end the airport goodbyes.

Tuesday, 25 January 2011

ClassWork: Week 1: Monologue

Kacey's Monologue

Dad is snoring, again, but worse than that it's so cold. Three blankets, feotal position, feet still cold, hardly slept. Must be nearly dawn, time to milk the cows, what's the point of just lying here, will never sleep, will have to get up soon. I know. Yes. I've wanted to since I got here, can't believe I haven't done it already really, just stupid, now's as good a time as any I guess, jesus it's cold, where's my shoes? I hope my socks are by them, yes, good. Shoes on. Open the door, don't wake family, stupid latch always drops down so loudly. Christ it's colder out here, of course it is, Kacey, stupid, my eyelashes will freeze! Mum's coat, that'll help, right, up we go. I hope there's no bears in that dark, dad would probably kill me if he knew I was out here... oh well... hopefully it will be worth it. Funny, can't smell the woods or the shit in this cold. Up, up, whistle... gotta find a nice spot, maybe where Jodie and I hung out the other day, that had a good view, it still looks really dark though, maybe it's not nearly dawn, look at all the stars, I wonder what they're called, so much better than the city, no yellow fog in the sky, I wonder what all these stars are, wish I knew, should've listened, no - should've taken astronomy after school ha-ha, like all the nerds, wonder what Darren would've made of that, he prob would've laughed. This it? Think this is it. It really had better be dawn, I don't wanna sit here too long, I'll prolly freeze my tits off, where's that rock, any rock, sit on a rock, sit here and wait, God, wish I wasn't alone, would be better if Darren were here, ha as if he'd let me enjoy this anyway, he'd be all over me, yes, that's right, Kacey, you're just that irresistable, haha.
What was that? Please be a squirrel or something tiny, I wish it was sunrise already, dammit. Time to rise, Mr Sun before the bad things get me before Mr Bear creeps up behind me, or Mr Yeti, or worse isn't this when abductions happen, any of those stars could be UFOs in disguise. NEVER TO BE AGAIN, KACEY DISAPPEARS, EXPECT EATEN BY BEARS. But it was the aliens really. Stop getting in underneath, Mr Cold. Stop scaring yourself, nothing there, not here or right there. Nothing. What's that? It looks a bit brighter down there, can't be my eyes getting used to the dark can it? I couldn't see that before.



Sunday, 23 January 2011

The Afterthoughts of Streetlamps

In the early morning or late night darkness of the dark
and darkening outside; streetlamps

flick wild flames of impassioned words,
sticking to roofs in all the corners, underneath

guttering; the mimicking day glow
sputters. I teeter on the windowsill watching

with abandoned features the slick
of the early morning or late night darkness, thickening

down ravines of pot-holed tarmacadam,
and I do not care if I am seen.

I want to sit and breathe the air and hope
the early morning, when it dispels the late night

darkness, will distil its newness and all that is new
of day and sun into my skin and in, my blood-

stream needs it - so neighbours pull your
curtains so that they touch and fend off the darkening

outside, don’t blame me if voyeur cat-like eyes
impose on your insides' goings-on; or meet me

as I meet the world tonight, if you wish, stand
vigil with me as the early morning comes.

Saturday, 15 January 2011

Poker Night

Important beyond the poker and cards,
the money and hands;

are tumblers and nibbles
in wicker-clad bowls,
with chips and dips,
and flavour-full crisps.

Also, the wine,
the beer and cake;
how could we bet
if our stomachs were lean?

Or if our plumped tongues
were too parched to call?

Sated, we play;
there's Cerys and Dave,
his Helen and then Liam,
and me the good host.

So through the night,
we flush as we bluff,
pairing and running,
corralling our chips,
until the baize folds to gold,
and glutton has gilded
our stomachs and our eyes.

Friday, 14 January 2011


Nurtured over Christmas,
watered and fed,
my belly's growing larger,
than the eyes in my head.

I devoured my hunger
like a salivating hound,
satiating the ache
for the sake of this mound.

Chocolates and Haribo,
little Santa treats,
a stocking that burst
with sticky calories.

Lay me down flat
on the coroner's slab,
wrap me with bacon
and slap me with fat.

Waiting for a Train

"Security forces
will be on hand
to destroy
any unattended luggage."

(I can see them now,
in an inky room,
slurping tea and paper words.)

"24 hour CCTV
is in operation
for your own protection."

I look up at the eye
and it winks.

Moons orbit the platform,
a belt of yellow sunlight
divides it,
stray debris cartwheel
in a vacuum.

"We are sorry,
but the
train to,
is delayed by approximately,

White-Tail Ghosts

Seven nuclei brazen themselves
to the rear-end of the near-empty bus,
orbiting my atmosphere,
elucidating words too long
for their apparent youthful looks.

Hoity-toity voices warble around
“bioscience” “micro-biology”
and “it's all common-sense, really!”
as each uttered syllable
sucks from my ether,

condensing words like 'class'
and 'privilege' so each sputter
sounds round, like a marbled cloud
swallowing the formaldehyde air.
My skin wrinkles with inferiority.

She, a chieftain, charges with personal
positivity, leaving only negativity
around her. She likes the word
“crwys,” apparently, a vowelless word,
usurping conversing 'friends.'

Ghostly white coats trail their behinds
as they approach escape velocity,
a yellow rose
from my imaginary gun.

Young Mum, Young Dad

Nuclei board the bus in files
fledged from guttered pairings,
their doorstep love interwoven
into themes of that reality
they dreamed would be their 'Jeremy Kyle.'

Bright caps on dull heads distaste
the near-sentient pram-person;
those caps calibrated with vague
opiate excretions colouring auras:
its singularity in fact a regularity.

Non-capacious heads drole
over smiles, with tightrope pony-tails,
gaspingly swaying prams and rattles
copiously laughing and flying drug-stewed
bottles at spittle-blubbering runways.

Dense pairings, in the act of time,
substituting love for style.
Their bus rides end, diaphragms purge
- pushing prams past prams -
and they i-pod home to mum and dad.

First Sunday of the Year

A tumble in the morning
invited sepia to the bedroom,
with her hair tangled,
like her breathing,
around my ear.

Dual feelings wrought a smile,
a recipe itself of contentedness
and emptiness
- Sunday,
a metaphorical soap bubble.

We untangled and dabbed
wet cotton to our soaped skins,
replacing odours,
and as midday arrived,
roasting pork wafted in waves upstairs.

Lunch was followed by football,
the third round
as delectable as the meal.
The FA Cup.
Villa and United.

This soap bubble day,
in ascension,
could not burst and fill
with the sour air.
A perfect un-poppable sphere.

At some point, night fell,
as day was felled,
and the bubble turned invisible,
as last it floated
above Monday on the calendar.