She said you were sleeping

it off.

Peeling and uncovering

tender of grief

She said you were sleeping

it off.

Cutting through flesh

exposing the seeds

She said and I saw

a weariness settled

slithers of something we could

not reach

in Monday’s coffee catch.

Confession Box

I’d just like to say

I stole a pack of Marlbourgh

Lights when I was seven.

On his eighteenth

birthday bodies

lay littered,

sofa, kitchen, floor,

one half way up the stair.

The pack fruit and ripe.

I’d just like to say

I snuck into the chicken shed

with the girl next door

chocked on every last one,

white torches

spiced my tongue.

I’d just like say

I stole the money

idle in your purse

coins, many a time,

ran from your pocket to mine.

Spent on economy vodka.

I’d just like to say

I’ve come so far

only running off with

husbands

four letter words

and your very best and favourite

chap stick.

I’d just like to say

I’m a lying thief.

Top-Up

Nobody wanted the sigh

kept awake

propped up dolls.

I swayed 

letters in my hands

blood tilted 

the train rattled onwards

my parts scattered on the track

they stared at their own

infinite reflection

reflecting on my own.

‘Why does she cry?’

Just a girls grief

flaking on the platform

between Moorgate and Farringdon

feet fall into pockets of blank faces

excuses that have lost their way.

Congestion Charge

One of them walks

not yet awake,

quivers a sigh

she’s lost?

Breaking the train in,

gone, disliked by fondness

all you need is

a hand squeeze.

Her pieces dispersed on the track.

Vast black tunnels,

see the reflected stranger

declaim

sadness is not only on the platform,

Farringdon mouthed

bellowed in the shape of Moorgate

her feet lost in the gap.

Cadaverine Magazine 2009