Sleeves of biscuits and casual stalking

If I could balance
each biscuit that I ate
this week
one
on top
of
one
on top
of
one
on top
of
one
it would reach
from the ground outside
your house
to the bottom of
your bedroom window
and I
would
carefully
climb
to the top of the pile
and balance there
watching
as you went about
your day to day
unaware that a man
sitting on a tower
of crunch creams
and digestives
was living something
make believe
just outside.

Two and a half seconds

I have made a home
inside of a two and a half second
episode that you are,
almost undoubtedly,
unaware even took place
and that I have favoured
with growing importance
as each second past thereafter.
I have burrowed under its surface
and lay covered by numerous
interpretations
that lead solely to an outcome
that pleases both you and I
and wait there.
Then,
it felt real
and I needed that.
If only for a two and a half second
episode
at the end of a long day
without you.

Side by side somewhere else

I saw your mouth change shape
as you turned your body
away from where I sat.
So slight was the shift
that if I hadn't spent so many days
in your company
I never would have noticed.
You changed
and I changed along side you
and knew that what I thought was,
was gone
and we were simply two people
in the same room.

There is nothing certain, only this

I took a photograph of you
then held it in my hand
and could feel your body
when you were not there
and I was resting my head
on a before
that was washed away
by waves
that left me lost.

You are my North
and there is nothing else.

Monday regret

I didn't eat eggs for breakfast
though I know I should have
because eggs are full of stuff
that make you heavy
and I don't want
to look like this anymore
if I can help it.

When it was almost what it should have been

She was wearing orange
as the sun set
over rocks that
had seen it set
more than
a thousand times before 
and changed colour
until it disappeared
and rose some place else.

To skim the surface

I am wearing a t-shirt that doesn't fit
and making lists of books that I want to read
on scraps of paper
that have drawings of faces on.
I wish it was Sunday for no reason.
I feel hollow and silly.

I watched Mystic Pizza last night.
If it was 1988 I'd be cooler than I am.

When there is only space

If it is the end
then I don't want to see you go
because I am not strong
and I am not ready
and I don't know how to say goodbye
and words don't seem enough
and words are not enough
and nothing is.
If it is time
then I will stand here
with my eyes closed shut cos
I can't start the day with you here
and end it with you gone.
I don't know how
and I'll never know how
and this wasn't enough
and it never can be
and I'm not ready
and you can't go
and you started leaving
long before now
and it doesn't matter
and it never did
and you have to stay.
You have to stay.
You have to stay.
You have to.

If I was brave you would love me, attempt number three

I could make you happy.
And if I could say
any words
when you are standing in front of me
it would be those ones.
And I'm sure that you're happy
and I know that
no one
needs
someone
to fulfil that in themselves
and I'm even inclined to believe
that looking externally for happiness
is one of the most unhealthiest
things a person can do.
It is
destructive
and
dangerous
and
eventually
destroys your inside
without you even knowing
until there's nothing left.

But I would
make you happy.

Like really happy.

The kind of happy
that makes Disney films
so nauseatingly sweet.

The kind that makes Belle
skip through streets
with baskets filled with bread
and sunshine
singing to birds and other
usually unfriendly wildlife
like boar and overprotective
mother deers
about her new love Prince Eric.
And yes I know that
Prince Eric
loves Ariel
and that Ariel 
is a mermaid
and not the only daughter
of an inventor
in a small provincial French town
and that Belle inevitably falls in
love with her own Prince who,
at the time of their initial meeting,
is under a spell which,
unfortunately for him,
means that he lives each day as a Beast
because he was incapable of love,
but details aren't important
when the kind of happy
that you and me
would be
is at stake.
In fact,
for all intents and purposes,
and to vainly try and get my point back on track,
maybe you're the beast.
And thats not to say
that you're incapable of love
because I don't doubt for a second
that your heart is filled to the brim
with a kind of love
that could quite literally
sweep me off my feet.
But maybe,
unknowingly,
you have locked your heart
inside
a metaphoric steel cage
and that you're walking
through each day,
seemingly full of the joys of Spring,
all the while unaware
that your heart is drying up.
And, no I'm not trying
to frighten you into submission
or make you second guess
for even a minute
your state of mind
which I'm sure
is absolutely tip top.
I would just like you to consider
that maybe,
just maybe
it would be worth your while
to really think about
whether or not the happiness
that you're experiencing
is really akin
to the kind of happiness
that you could experience
if we were a we.
And I know
that it sounds big headed
and that arrogance
is unattractive
in a human being
but
I could make you happy
and
I would make you happy
if I could say
any words
when you are standing
in front of me.

Last night I dreamed of you (a poem for Ivy Sullivan) Illustrated

It was then, today

There are clouds
casting shadows on the ocean
and I am with you
though you are somewhere else.
There is a grey inside your eyes
that wasn't there
when I saw you first
and your arms are by your side
and I don't know where
to put my hands
and my eyes
are looking at
my feet
cos when I look at you
I see only past
and it makes my insides hurt
and I can't hide it
from my outsides
and I don't want you to see
cos you would sink
and I don't have the strength
to pick you up
and bring you back
to a now that exists
purely to feed the needs
of an us that existed
in a then that ended
long before now. 
I am tired
and heavy
and done holding onto
an idea.

James Taylor & mucus tears

I am poorly and
listening to James Taylor
on loop,
wishing that I was he
and that I was
going to Carolina
with the secret of life
in my back pocket
instead of snotty tissues,
sitting in a call centre
feeling sorry for myself
with a heavy head
so full of mucus
that if I was so inclined,
and mucus dried
much the way plaster did,
I could plaster an entire room
with its contents
and with this it has just dawned on me
that I couldn't be further from
James Taylor
if I tried
and now I'm sad
and
congested
which we all know
makes Thom a ratty boy.

Stockard Channing and a thing that almost happened

Stockard Channing
didn't give me her autograph
but it mattered none
because when she walked past me
smelling like violets
I saw her smile before
it dissolved into stillness
and I knew she wasn't inconsiderate,
just running late.

That night, at dinner
she drank clear liquer
and told stories about '78'
that made Alexander blush
beneath that mop of hair
that he touched so often.
He was so shy.

I forget that sometimes.

I took the pack of cards
that I carry with me always
from inside my cardigan,
wrote her name
onto the back of
the Queen of Hearts
and slid it inside
the pocket of her coat.
I hoped that later,
when she got back to an empty hotel,
she'd reach for her room key
and find it there.

She didn't call or mention it again
but it mattered none
because after that night
she lived inside my heart
and I could feel her there
as I went about my days
until each one was done.

I dreamed again of light

It took only a second
for me to see
that you were there
and that you were waiting
for me to be ready
for today to be
what was intended.
I saw that
your eyes were filled
with a light
that wrapped around corners
and rested on my shoulders
and I wasn't frightened
and hours and minutes
didn't seem too big.
You were there
and the fear
that existed before
had dissapeared
with the shadows
that your light had swallowed
and I stood
and it didn't seem
impossible.

Last night I dreamed of you (a poem for Ivy Sullivan)

I bought you a ring
with a green and blue stone
and put it inside your hand.
Your hair,
blown tangled by sea winds,
hung golden beyond your shoulders.
We stood
one
in front of the
other
and waited for the afternoon
to catch up to where we were.
You smiled.
I smiled.
You held the ring tight
between your fingers.
I brushed golden light from your eyes.
With your other hand
you reached for my face
and let my cheek rest in your palm.
It was then
I understood
that we were becoming
something far greater
than just two people
standing
one
in front of the
other
and closed my eyes
for longer than a second.
I knew you had done the same.

You are thinking of me and I am thinking of you

I marched
inside your head
some time
after
we met at first,
and
before
I saw you again
and with hands filled
with colour
painted stripes
where
white was before
and stayed there
until I wasn't
just
a memory
of then
anymore.

What I can do

A sign for all seasons

I am tired.
The kind of tired
that makes driving dangerous
and the easiest of tasks
tedious
and
consuming
yet
I have spent hours
and minutes
and days
filling my eyes
and
ears
and hands
with proof
that this is more
than nothing
and though
it is easy to find signs
when you are looking
everywhere
at everything
I choose to believe
that a stranger
saying your name
to clarify
which letter of the alphabet
his car registration
starts with
is evidence
that I am on your mind
and that you too
are tired
of waiting.

Him

Already there is only half because
nothing is based on fact
despite the many hours
you have dedicated to days when you
and me are
no more than everything
disguised as strangers,
travelling towards a
happiness that you can't find alone-
other than when you are alone, thinking of
me.

If it was 1964 and I had more time than anything else

I would braid my hair,
tuck flowers behind my ears
and wear a carpet jumper,
sit on the ground
with my legs crossed
and my hands on my knees,
raising my voice for peace
and not brute force,
standing up only
to stand in the way
of those raging through
life leaving heavy footprints
on an earth that
buckles under the weight
of people
who have become numb
to consequence,
forgetting that
to tread lightly
is to tread kindly
and that that is
the most important
thing of all.

We are just two people

I can't say for certain
that I would have
stood
side by side
and told them
they were wrong
for dancing steps
laid out by
those who strode
through town
years before
throwing daggers,
staring
darkness
between the eyes
and smiling
widely
at days that never
belonged to them.
But I hope
more than
I hope
for anything else
that I wouldn't have
let minutes
idly go by
feeding the beast
until its belly
became swollen
with a venom
that would infect
not only it
but all
that it touched
as it flailed
and thrashed
and walloped
towards a death
that couldn't come
soon enough.

A little like long

For as long
as I don't turn over
my calender
I am still
pouring milk
and
eating Cheerios
in between
a life
when it was almost
and
a life
when it never was
at all.

I sleep
with the light on
bright
so darkness
never comes
and it is just
one
long
day
that doesn't end
and I'm no further
from almost
than
when it started.

Advice #1

When there is
uncertainty
it is best to stay
still
and wait
until
the air changes
the way it feels on your skin
and
you feel
like dancing
again.

Something there is

I will write
until I fall inside
a truth
that is far more
than for its own sake
and then
I will write
without
searching
because
it will
be there
already.