Friday, 29 May 2009

Tomorrow, I Will Go Dancing

Tomorrow, I Will Go Dancing

Today, I’m eating margarine straight from the tub
and I feel so guilty however hard I scrub.
My wrist's unbandaged, I’m trying not to rub
but I’ve so many sores that need lancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

My fingernails are rusty. Head full of ills.
Chest hot and tender as stomach spills.
But tomorrow, I’m going to get these little pills.
See, everything about me needs enhancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Tomorrow, you’ll go dancing, in your glitter tat.
Absinthe! Vodka! You never get fat.
Laughing. Smiling. All that goes with that.
Today, I feel anxieties advancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Hear my father’s voice, warped and splintered today,
he says “Misery will find you, boy, you’ll never get away.”
My dick feels like a beehive on a warm, summer’s day
when I see pretty things all preening and prancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Everyone there’s friendly. Falling into song.
I want to be loved. I’ve been lonely for so long.
Tomorrow is a vessel, sail way from all this wrong
where bitches say I’m ugly and can’t sing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

Today, I feel your laughter and it’s gnawing in my head.
It's biting out the blisters where you burned until I bled.
If I panic ‘til I can’t breathe, feel I’d be better dead,
well, I tell myself that risk is worth chancing.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.

I want to join the happy crowds, glorious and glad.
I want to like pop music. Never feel bad.
My therapist’s implying that I choose to be this sad.
I tell her, “You know nothing… but if you’re asking...
I think she's asking?
She's asking.
Tomorrow, I will go dancing.”

Thursday, 21 May 2009



We are ring without stone.
Rich belong to rich.
Diamonds are mean,
clean jewels for tidy, shiny families.
Diamonds, a boy’s worst friend.
They’re forever.
Aren't they?
Reminding what will never be.
Lingering fingers flaunt sharp rocks.
Always pointing.

Wednesday, 13 May 2009



There is a wizard downstairs
in the flat below.
He wears a pointy hat
and a dressing gown
and he makes rainbows for me.

He wipes the dust from his spell books
- mixes it with tomato juice,
eye of black bean, crust of tooth paste,
microwaves it in a pudding bowl
and then


tells it secrets.

Heating up rainbows,
there is a wizard downstairs
with a bumper-carred grin.
One eye all Ferris wheels,
one eye the underside of a scratched CD.

He can't do hellos or goodbyes
but knows everything in between.

He knows what tea leaves think
after they've been read,
can see the faces talking
in the damp patch in his kitchen
-corrects their algebra
-makes them blush.
Patchworks his bedroom with postcards and photos,
says they switch places when he sleeps.
I believe him.

I think about him when I'm at work
as I type other people's words
on a computer that doesn't even
have a name.

He names everything.

The kettle is called Ursula Pink.
She embodies the ghost
of a menopausal midwife.
Poor Ursula.
Lime scales her children.

Morgan the dish rack wishes
he could swap places with the plates.
"Confounded scoundrels!"
Let them carry him for once.

The toaster is Catherine Taylor-Clarke
(Double-barrel, 'cos she's posh),
will burn your bread if you look at her wrong.
but Wizard says he would never change her,
he likes her as she is,
If she just did what he wanted all the time,
she'd be boring.

When Wizard talks,
words start fire working his lips,
tiny explosions tease on his tongue.
I want to study them,
pick them up when they look cooler,
but I'm scared they'd blow up in my face.

This man is a bonfire of love,
a Hero,
will fly you on a carpet
through a thousand lands
of impossibly beautiful dreams
all inside his flat.

He won't go outside anymore.
Says his magic won't work out there.
It's happening here,
where he makes me rainbows
and I make his tea.

Tuesday, 12 May 2009

Stranger Dress

Stranger Dress

One day, when I was bored
I dressed myself in strangers.
They made me think that I was beautiful.
Pressed diamonds in my lap.
There were wild, flashing colours
Everywhere my heart touched

And every frown I saw became
A harbour to a smile,
And every sobbing drunk I touched
Was sober… for a while.

I threw off the rags I’d worn,
I’d been a slave to labels.
Never even realised
all this freedom could be mine!
Pulling out the panic
from me celebrating madness.

I know
My wardrobe doesn’t have
A thing to wear through rain,
I know
That all my jewels are fake
As any artist sane,
I know
That all the men I wear
Like cloth, will quickly fade,

Still, I’m glad, when I got bored
I chose the clothes that suit me!
Dolled up like a princess,
I won’t go home today.
I grabbed a fist of fancy jewels
And never had to pay.

I’ll never miss the drab and grey
Tatters I wore yesterday
Because the first time you feel happy
Can never be taken away.

Thursday, 7 May 2009

Home of Beasts

Home of Beasts

Beetled walls protect
our woodloused floors, our spidered
roof, our great small lives.

Tuesday, 5 May 2009

Living Document

Living Document

My mind is a living document,
marching on paper legs,
trampling detail,
dissecting later.

My mind is a feeding document, parasitic,
bloated hungry, writes over its own mistakes,
slops new ideas on top of old,
past thoughts bleeding between present ones.

My mind is a breathing document,
gasping for air,
strains its leash.
This brittle body cover can’t hold it down.

My mind is a walking document, no, a running document,
tears ahead of hands,
rips through pride and pants.
Its inky prints stain you. My mouth says sorry.

This mind is a talking document,
tells me sour endings it promises will unfold.
Help me keep its wet, jaw pages tight shut.
There’s a black blob butterfly inside.

This mind is a laughing document,
cackling all night.
How can I sleep?
I’m wide eyed beside you.

Your mind is in a dream hammock
resting over your head.
It returns to your brain as you wake.
I wrestle with mine ‘til it knocks me out cold.