Prelude

things about the house shift to take on new forms

in new disguise, newest devices under weight of dust

and more,

old news to me but in store for her an adjustment

of meaning, just things now things to impress,

now dusted clean

of old skin and that which the skin cemented,

like when it was fresh, keeping blood at bay

beneath as it pumped

the familiarity of everything around my everyday

body, to now every web denounced and toenail clipped

and more.

Uber Sperm

Blood rushed to my head.
I was dizzy with anxiety
as she said the words.

I imagined my little men,
donned in tight blue suits,
wearing a tail red cape,
flying away from me.

My own little uber sperm,
explosive twice, not once,

they've betrayed me, the little bastards.

Selfish, selfish gits.
Only thinking of themselves.

Soft-Hard

The Softest Spot beats bilinear,

directions of selfishness and arrogance.

I pull your hand out of my wound,

blood escapes and I watch coldly,

you talk and paste your hand to my stomach,

I don't talk and I keep your hand there,

the hole above pulsates with lost blood,

heart shrinks, bones reform, skin grafts

across the empty lungs leaving a scar,

which I stroke, realising your hand has gone.

Rose

I place the rose down and like how it reminds me of you, how it always reminds me of you. Not just because it was your favourite flower, not just because of the literal references; how I connect it to instances of you – the smell of you after a shower or the colour on your cheeks in the cold. The rose is where your memory survives.

                Today is a wet one. I stand here in my mac, trousers slowly becoming skin, and rain like a gauze sutures my face to the elements. I breathe in the ozone of storm, the freshness of grass disturbed by rain and feet, and the oppression of low clouds, grey and full of potential.

                I like it when it rains at your grave; you always loved to splash in the puddles – and in the plush green of your resting place pools of rainwater await your stomping wellie-filled feet, and will go on waiting. It comforts me to see life here, to know the rain is seeping down through the mud, past life, regenerating, aiming for you. And to see your gravestone glisten as new, like day one. It reassures the permanence of you.

                This is you now. You beat me to it. One day we will both be grass and mud, soil-fodder and feed for growth, but you will be first. You wait for me in the science of change.

                The rose is a representation of what you were and what you will become.

                The stem supports the flower, it is a vessel for all the things that keep it beautiful; dripping with rain, propped against your gravestone, it holds the head high as it collects with a sheltered gentility, mists of rain within its folds, its bright red folds – curtains of blood shot with the entreating vortex of infinity. Like you were, it is complex and has, upon detailed inspection, whirls of blood, deepening into itself, too much for my eye, too much for me to ever know.

Past roses, in varying states of failure, like limp sentinels or ghosts of sentinels, rest beside your gravestone. I asked for the roses to be kept, so that one day you would be with what was once a rose and once held by me, all soil and worm-meat.

The Gathering

                Compartmented us,

devised into groups and finished with rose-

wood, apart, together, blue-

prints of a deathbed imposed upon tradition;

                a family of funerals, made

with years of rings in the wood of trade,

today built for a funeral in-house –

we measure our hours with grief

                and plane them until tear-

marked and smooth, a section at a time,

tasks delegated; polishing the handles

that we will hold to carry it, fining

                the finest finish of edges,

tissues of sandpaper burning our eyes; we

must not wipe our noses on this, nor

count the grief in knots and dovetails

                as a father sets varnish to brass

and a mother holds his hand over hand and

spreads the gleaming light to the coffin-sides;

sons and daughters standing in reflection.

Pink

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.

Going the Distance

fun and frolics in the movie language
of Hollywoodian clichés,
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
actors.

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.

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.
Quiet.
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.
Ssshhh

Ssh







Wow

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.

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,

three-of-a-kind,

corralling our chips,

until the baize folds to gold,

and glutton has gilded

our stomachs and our eyes.

Belly

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
twelve,
twenty,
seven,
train to,

Cardiff,
is delayed by approximately,
thirteen,
minutes."