The Dream

In the broken hours, when sleep is hesitant,
When dreams come thick and short
In these drowsy, wakeful moments,
My thoughts are staged.
A full cast and vibrant scenery,
My room my backdrop, throbbing in and out of focus.
The girl enters.
I recognise her frame,
She is as she is in cold consciousness,
At first.
But then, easing into shot,
Her eyes appear disturbed,
Coated with a crust of paint,
Talc skin sags, plied, pressed and pulled,
Mauled to slacking point.
Beneath the lids, hollow bags filled in with apricot paste,
Cracked by nature’s creases.
I see a cut under one eye- the mark of over-zealous grooming,
Blood melts down an arid cheek.
A Gasp! Hurried dabs blot the leak,
Paste re-applied,
The mask made complete.

The scene contorts, clears and re-opens
To a room with an over-sized television,
A vacant screen screaming for attention.
It hobbles closer, beginning to smother me,
I, standing still, strain under its weight,
Sharp edges dig into skin,
Prodding at bruised flesh.
Aching elbows long for release.
There’s nowhere to place it, a balancing act,
Cluttered objects slip beneath,
Soapy discs pushing up and over,
And side to side
My fingers, muscle-less prongs,
Are the only solid support.
I could be holding this forever.
An Atlas, Greek god of the technological age.
But instead of the weight of the world,
I have a Television set.

Being Unemployed

I’m an ambitious, self-motivated person,
Who thrives on a challenge, and works well under pressure.
I have a good working knowledge of Word, Excel, and PowerPoint,
-Crucial life skills doncha know?
You might as well end it now if you can’t draw tables,
Or cut and paste workbooks-
I have a first class degree in English literature.
-I was also super woman for a few years
But am now looking for a career change-
I would be thrilled to join your company.
Click. Send.
It’s out there now, out in the ether,
To get lost amongst millions of other voices.
It’s no use shouting louder, It’ll only add to the noise.
It’s time to wait,
Thumb-twiddling time.

Afternoons of ‘Countdown’, intermittent computer tapping,
I’m losing heart, I’ve lost the will,
My life is filled with mute responses.
I’m talking to myself, only myself to answer to,
I can’t answer.
Google this, google that, google me a life.
Make lists, research,
Read, find something, what’s this?
No good, Two years experience required.
Up and down, upstairs, down again.
A paper on the floor- flicked through, semi-read,
A carcass of information, tomorrow’s nuisance.
The couch imprinted with the shape of my back,
Prepped for the slouching,
Hunched over, round shouldered.
(I’m unemployed who needs a good posture?)
Blank for a moment.

The television flickers pointless pictures,
Familiar voices bring comfort,
Without saying much, they say it all.
Newsreaders say, Look at My double-breasted jacket
And Monsoon beads,
I have a job.
Presenters say, I’ve done the running, I’ve made the tea,
now I’m the face of today,
I have a job.
Actors say, This is my big break, you watch,
I’m the cover of next week’s Grazia.
I have a job.
I’m watching other people’s lives happen.
Waiting for mine to happen.
Watching, and waiting.
I’m getting good at this,
I’m unemployed.

Remembering

I saw you in the fire today,
Flames flickered your face into focus,
Darting shots of caramel and lilac heat,
Your expression all moving colours.
You offered a smile, a stolen gift,
I smiled back. It took me back
To a time when laughing, we both sat,
Sitting still, staring into the grate,
Poking at charcoal shards,
A quiet joke shared.
We whispered of nothing
And those nothings became my everythings
And yours too.
Safety in twos.
One is not a number to brave the world with,
One summons nothingness back.
You’ll never come back.
Only in thoughts’ debris,
And in the slices of memory that cut deep into me,
And in the fire at the end of a long day.

Sonnet

You came to me in tears that day,
Your skin sodden, a crumpled sheet,
Back then I scarce knew what to say
In haste, a friend I did delete.
You told me you had fallen for
My own, my heart’s most cherished treasure,
And thief-like out from me you tore
Him, broke in, broke me to suit your pleasure.
But though you stole that boy of mine,
Twas not for him that I did mourn,
My love for you did far outshine
That heady haze of love’s first dawn.
So dear lover besotted, remember this cue;
Discard not your friends, they’re the best part of you.

The Concert

A hushed silence descends,
As if a thick blanket had floated down from the Rafters to smother one hundred sleepers.
The last coughs and splutters, the last mutters,
The last mumbles and fumbles,
Rufflings and shufflings on seats.
The tuning notes, the bow strokes and exhalations,
The puffings and huffings, the tappings and slapping On drum skins and tins,
Music stands and clammy hands,
All stand still.
All din dissolves into soundless, shapeless space.
This time is timeless.
The moment before the beginning,
Between the question and the answer,
The end of the world.
For now, life leaves off.
The stirrings of thoughts are banished,
Restlessness rests, succumbing to a poised lethargy.
All oft treaded tensions slacken.
A new anticipation.
We hover over a precipice of discovery, waiting to Fall or to float.
We wait.
No one can claim to know what’s coming.
We wait.
For a few snatched seconds all are equal.
We wait.
Breath caught, pin drop silence.
We wait
We hope.

The baton is raised.

Hung-Over

Hung is frazzled, oxygen deprived,
A limp lump lifeless sags,
You’re knocked out, out cold,
Semi-conscious, half dead,
Thick head hanging heavy.
Hung, rung out, the very life squeezed out,
Dehydrated and hanging out to dry.

Over is over-whelmed and thoroughly whelmed over,
Due to over-indulgence, going over the top.
Overwrought, over- tired,
Tipping over the edge, over your knees,
To ease sick stomach churning over.
And over.
And over.

Hung over and over hung,
And hanging back while the rest of the world gets on with life.

Cat

I have a cat, a fat cat in fact.
In fact, so fat is my cat that when she lies flat,
Her glossy, floppy coat spreads to the edges of our bathroom mat.
(It’s not a small mat at that).

She has neither a puckish nor feline sway,
But hobbles and toddles along,
Slow-paced, small face sinking into folds of flesh.
She can’t really play.
Unless she’s reclined of course, in which case she can just about pat a paw
And claw at a piece of string,
Or anything dangly and thin,
Or hanging from the ceiling, as I sit kneeling,
Holding said string aloft.
Anything to coax movement would be an improvement
On the slothful way she spends her days,
All a haze, and lazily.
Food, then sleep, then food again, her mood always the same,
The cycle of life, a repeated refrain.

If she were human she’d be on the scales,
With face turning pale, she’d glance at the dial.
No smile, only mistrust and disgust as the arrow inches up.
No smile still as she browses through glossies,
Brimful with stick-like beauties with their honed and toned bodies.
Stomach sinking she’d be thinking, ‘Why can’t I be like that?’
So she’d eat chocolate, a lot-of-it.
She’d have developed a relationship with food,
It’d dictate her mood, and vice versa, as her mood would dictate what she consumed.
She’d curse her lack of will power,
And the day kitkats were invented,
No, she’d never be contented, nor prevented from reaching into the biscuit tin.
If she were human she’d pin all her hopes on being thin,
And her life would be a battle she’d never win.

So yes I have a cat, a cat who’s fat.
But though she’s fat, she’s happy with that,
So I applaud her, and what’s more it doesn’t matter at all
That she will always be fat and never be small.