Wednesday, 15 April 2015


It began with phrases
I would reuse them, increase them for occasion
Let my tongue locate feeling
‘I really feel for you’ I would say, like a friend did
I  lied, titled my head to one side
As I had seen in the films. I talked about films
Like the text in magazines, filled
Silence with clichés, camera stills
Became role-play.  I willed a voice
From memory into mine
Trembling, tripping through time
‘I am truly envious’ – even though I was not.

I am haunted by memories
Of a teacher who spoke
In tones as cut-clear as a pitcher
Serving ice-water at lunch
Which froze our lips over
-          I could only smile dumbly with every sip.

Now I intend to drink in
Yet still I drop, clichés and clench
To the arms which still rock –
They hold bracelets not, handed down, hot
Like the pen between fingers, making shapes over
The box which says ‘sign here’

The recycled gesture
The recycled thought
The first few words recycled
Slide through the throat

What do you want
Is an odd question
From when we are children
-              The trill of annoyance
Irritable, launched
By the teacher who once made you
Stand in the corner
‘what do you want?’.
I wanted to be an author
But that was not what she meant
Meaning – ‘why are you being so awful?’
I wanted knowledge, friends
But nothing belonged here

I am trying to get something off my chest
It isn’t working
I bring the subject up slowly,
Thickening near my neck,
Hurting. It could be age
Not yet an adult
Skin still inflamed by clichés,
Rage – can even have positive meaning

Rage rage rage rage

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