Pulled out of a poetry festival because I cannot for the fucking life of me be in the same building as two of my exes for 12 hours.
I think I’m just giving up poetry in general, to be honest. That’s what it’s panning out to look like. I’m not going anywhere and maybe I was never even meant to go anywhere with this. I have no clue what I’m doing anymore. I can’t live in this state of mind any longer. I just can’t.
Words don’t live inside me anymore and maybe they never did. Maybe I was just a hotel for poetry to pay its little visit. I’ve turned into the least passionate person I know. Empty, empty, empty. Cold hearted and hollow as a drained well.
SEVENTH GOAL I can’t breathe
Fuck off you are joking a fifth goal?!?!?!?!? Is this real?
Protoplast Sea Ridge
I am waiting for her to pull
the sloe arc and glades
from out of my skin.
uprooted, half a varicose
sunset of lashline nictitating
before the unwelcome fibril
is even due upon my supraorbital
ridge. Pores bleating empty.
I bleed the blood of another nation,
perspire the tears of another hominid.
I am a landfill for blood and bones,
putrid depot for spoiled iron
and the ill-fitting anxieties
that benevolently rot the veneer
of my cortical bones.
The more skins graze mine,
the more cells of the past
are exfoliated ‘til I am new.
‘Til granular dribblings of ozone
swaddle my heliophilic muscles
like an incommodious wintercoat
nagging the limbs of a schoolgirl.
I have been so cold
for so long.
His blood mottles every inkstain.
Heaven’s oceans burning until the
crucified stars - cocked with
corrugating an aurelian smirk -
sweat whilst fixed in their places,
glaring at their sunkissed vices.
The gulls are breaking tide,
the seas are sculling further.
I hear his nocturnal prayers
crawling between each cobalt wave,
demurely skimming the bashful
peakling of a southern shipwreck,
proclaiming at tidal collisions,
whispering anchored salves
to the crown of shallow measures,
spitting toe-prints into drunken sand,
finding his way to the shoreline.
His forehead is a raging sea
of misunderstood worries.
His eyes are the flecks of gold leaf
hastily mixed into rich bean chocolate.
His collarbones are newly fractured
His chest is a hollow cave
inhabited by anxious rats.
His hands are pressed flowers
sleeping inside a dictionary.
His left hipbone is a solitary mountain,
ridges enveloped by misted water.
His knees are Neil Armstrong’s kisses
on the matted scalp of the moon.
His feet are enslaved roadrunners,
silken shells heavy with blithe sedative.
I used to write better. Sorry.
We sat like mossing hortensias
on the slate island squares
speckling the sunkissed tributary
of our indecipherable garden dream.
Our house – Our House –
where we built wordplay
in the gloaming prison cells
between flaws and ceilings.
You existed, kiss besmirching
paradigm sketch of a kiss stain-
so grapevine follicles curl inwards,
lit by the conjoining of kismet stars.
You existed in each breviloquent pause,
every sundried sentence waltzing
on the impulsively upturned canoe
of my summertide-chapped lips.
The rubied flesh betwixt torn leaves
bashfully flushed a robin hue,
as if you had invented the sun and
the torched cities swaddling her curves.
Your hands painted your words;
zephyrs skimming over pitted nails,
cross-stitching the stars taut together
with our blind, bleating fingertips.
We perched on our zealous islet
coddled in cockled crows’ feathers,
beaks picking at raw ventricle flesh
‘til the silver knaves of winter tumbled
and swept our balmy skins
soil-wards to bury the clement season.
Earth revolves once, and I am here again,
writing your name in the wind again.
I met this awesome guy at uni and I really liked him and he liked me too… so I deleted his number, blocked him on all apps and thoroughly erased him from my life.
Nothing I do makes sense. I am the definition of ‘I avoid relationships because I’m terrified of getting hurt again’. Wow.
People talk about how bad past experiences build you up, shape you, educate you etc. The past has just made me overly cautious, unable to trust anyone and supremely avoidant. If I feel myself beginning to like someone, I see it as a weakness or downfall and tell my feelings to fuck off before I tell potential partners to fuck off.
These behaviours that are protecting me are also managing to scare me. A lot.
Fermented Blueprint of a Man
I can hear you through the ceiling.
Elbow skins grinning
into the grotto crooks
of windowsills alpine dusted
with rondures of spider shells.
You paced yourself at the bar.
It wasn’t difficult when
your leaden fingerprints quaked
and quivered with the carnation
satisfaction of a dull ease,
the shelled pattern of each
cell diminished peak
holding the sweat of each
blood-brazen pint glass
stagnant within whorl folds.
The woodwork galaxies
penned into the bar-top
snarl their furling patterns
into your corneas, beneath
their beer-spillage beds.
‘Who would want to contact me
after seven pints swell their
calcified laughter into my lungs?’
You finger the lips of your phone,
coins, keys as they sleep in your pocket.
Weightless and obtrusively demanding
with each inbound metallic click,
the currency of Trimalchian fears
corrodes the porcelain tunnels between
your teeth, turns your skin a palsied hue.
Your thoughts oxidise in place,
hands claw the thighs of the nearest girl,
eyelids clamber to aurora hallucinations.
You can’t make sense, you lonely,
fermented blueprint of a man.
You are a landfill for stammered sentences,
inappropriate tenses, gimmicks
of personal pronouns,
north-west Nottinghamshire slang,
and lukewarm mugs of tea.
Palms heavy as industrial padlocks
weighing a plea for unprotected sex
atop her scalloped kneecaps.
You’ve had too much; cerebrum
now licking the skyline of reality.
A mossy conscience slumbers inside
the bounds of your gauzed skull
like a lost lamb haplessly misplacing
itself outside the fencework
of his emerald hometown.
The grief curdles into little snails
that now stir within your wristbones.
You milky tea, toast, durex,
pound coin, stowford press,
discarded contact lens of a man.