Elle va bien

They jostled onto the train that had arrived with a clankering commotion at the station. The vaulted tiled ceiling of the underground station swirled with the sound of metal, tannoy announcements and tourist hubbub. The train had emptied somewhat, spilling out its human cargo which shuffled towards the luminous sortie signs, the basic words even foreigners understood, ingrained from childhood French lessons and the trappings of travel. They were able to get seats as the train pulled away and snaked into the belly of the city, passing tunnels and bones of the long forgotten.

The seats were as hard as wood, worn down from millions of asses thankful of somewhere to rest for the short journeys between stations. They were heading down towards Saint-Marcel and thankful too to be getting away from the crush and pull of the touristy hot-spots. They watched the other passengers engrossed in smart phones, conversations and anxieties of potentially going the wrong direction. Passengers on life’s train of happenstance.

Opposite them sat a lady, listening to her headphones and glancing off into the train. Looking, but searching for nothing. Her brown hair fell around her face, framing her like a motionless portrait typical of those seen meters above in the many museums dotting the city. She sat motionless, listening to her music as the train swayed and hummed down the line. The only movement was a collection of tears that suddenly began to build and breach, trickling down her face. They watched as she tilted her head down, blinking away the collection of tears and emotions that had appeared. One of them jabbed the other in the side, bringing attention to the scene before them in case it was not being seen or felt for the degree that it was. He reached inside his pocket and took out a tissue, hoping it was clean. The crinkles indicated it had been with him all the day, but looked devoid of anything unpleasant.

He reached across and gently touched her arm. She looked up, surprised. “Are you okay?” he asked, hoping his eye’s spoke to a level beyond the language required. She nodded and mumbled words of appreciation, taking the tissue and dabbing her eyes. A small smile appearing at the corner of her mouth, her eyes shaking away an embarrassment that wasn’t necessary.

She looked above her finding the line map, a tiny yellow light indicated they were at Bastille. The train usually emptied a lot here, and she glanced around seeing those exiting and the people awaiting to board. Her hand found the phone in her pocket and she skipped the track on her music. The new song crashed in, her mind was suddenly taken elsewhere as her heart skipped and beat and the chaos around her ebbed away. It had never been ‘their song’, but it was always one that had reminded her of them. The lyrics so seemingly fitting for what they had, what had burrowed inside of her and warmed her soul. She did not notice the two guys sit down opposite her, the limited space between where their knees nearly met. She was off elsewhere, hearing laughter and smelling that someone on her bed-sheets.

The train jerked, and though she stayed in her memory, it shifted; along with the train. It had all crumbled, corroded only yesterday. Smashed liked a teetering tea cup on the edge of a kitchen counter. She could understand things not working right now, she could even acknowledge the arguing. But those had been usual relationship problems. To be told you were no longer needed, that you were no longer welcome in their life. That was what had hurt. She could deal with the packing up of possession and the moving on. Going into work the next day as routine propelled her forward. But she could not take the hurt that had ignited within, perhaps lying dormant for the inevitable. That she was never the one, she could no longer make them happy. All that she had to offer, came up short. All those reasons she had told herself why she was inadequate rang out to be real in a horrible realisation of truth. A view she had shielded her eyes from, like looking at the sun. It had swallowed her, submerged her in a grey that clung to her like oil.

Putting on her work clothes, combing her brown hair. Seeing the day instead of cowering in her bed like she wanted. The feeling of detachment and lack lay upon her, making her feel that no one really cared about her in this world. If she turned up to work, or not; nothing really mattered in a way. The tears welled and broke forth, streaming down her cheek in a warm river. She had forgotten she was on the metro. Her mother would have been ashamed to see her show such emotion in public, but she did not realise. Too consumed in grief and self-piety that she found herself deep beneath the streets of Paris on a Metro train that ran all day, every day. Until she felt something nudge her arm, softly yet foreign. She looked up surprised to see a small tissue and concerned smiles greet her. She nodded a thanks and was able to cough up “Merci, je vais bien.” She smiled slightly, knowing it was true.

The grey was still within her, but in that moment a tiny part had turned to white.

Insipid

The world is bored with the grey on your eyelids.
Floating down to cover us in an avalanche of despair.
Those tearing blacks that rip through your eyes when they shut.
Filling your soul in the soup of soured dreams.
Stewed and stuffed in our age of apathy.
It grows weary.
It spins and turns over, melting the poles and freezing the pacific to see where the birds will fly to at winter.
Or if they fly at all.
Dizzied and covered in the flakes of sorrow you proffer.
Give us the rains. Ones to wash away the rainbow hue of a dream that never flew.
Take it from us like an ice cream from a child.
This notion of static. The none moving motion you freeze yourself in.
Cracked like the world’s crust, oozing like the yoke of birth.
Seal your eyelids with the starry saliva of the angels.
Who whisper times of change as they lick at your ear.

(Half)Empty/Full

A Wounded heart, dying in decompression,
A heart that beats, formed by the cells of God.
This loneliness covers me like a crypt.
A quiet sanctuary for the seeker of stillness.
Blood on my hands and guilt through my bones.
A lesson learned in the guise of judgmental tones.
Tears run like a river of lost moments, damming me into distress.
Tears that rip and free the waves of elation, washing all over me.
Death.
Life.
A bitter end to a dying wounded bird.
Who soared higher than all the others in the sky.

Wreckage – adjustment.1

This pain that spreads, that aches like a fire.
Swirling within me like a hallucination.
Is not dampened by these tears from my eyes.
These tears; that do nothing to mask my inner knowing.
That I loved you more than the world.
And miss you beyond the stretches of time.
I was absent when you left.
But I too, died they day you departed.

A seismic reaction to safety

Dark dreams found me in the middle of the night.
Clawing me back to the dishonest land.
A foot unsteadied on tectonic plates of chaos.
You set the earthquakes within me.
Watching how I tremble.
How I shake the reasoning away.
You come from an island.
Isolated from all manner of truths and doubts.
Paradise in you remoteness.
Hidden sands of moments bleached in the sun.
Swim in the turquoised sky that reflects in your eyes.
Treading water in diamonds.
Your flesh escaping the scars.
I wish I were just as indestructible.
As I sit and watch you lasso a rope around the moon.
Pulling me down towards your solitude.
To hear you whisper late night tales of escape.
And watch the universe collapse into now.

Turquoise veiled ghosts

Twilight’s child so faithful to the few.
Caught between the space between us.
The strong who stand and the eternal lie.
A joker’s poem of loss.
Drawn to the white winged dove and Moses smile.
A sister to the dying cancer, locked in turquoise eyes of loss.
Starting up conversation with ghosts.
She picked her way through the bones of youth.
Making it out through the death with dignity.
Into willow licked streams of sulphur.
Glowing blue in the night’s sad demise.
Where will she watch the universe now?
Which end will she choose to believe in?
Picking her skin away, waiting for her day in the sun.
Discovering more cancer on the bone.
Finding her mother crying in bed.
Rotting away the light and smiles from her memories.
Illuminated black beauty and rest. Frightened by more feelings.
Captain to a sinking ship.

Interred

He was buried on the Tuesday morn.
While the rest of the world slept.
Into the ground, like being unborn.
Darkness around the coffin crept.
And they left John there, in that hole the ground.
After covering him up with earth.
In spirits they wished their sadness to drown.
So drank their sorrow away to mirth.
But after a while, inside the box.
Poor John had started to stir.
From the top of his head, down to his socks.
Some chaos was about to occur.
For John wasn’t dead, he’d only been sleeping.
When they’d thought the worse and put under.
And now the panic, inside him was creeping.
To get out of that terrible blunder.
But the panic was not down to being buried alive.
Or confined in that horrible space.
For John was nearly ninety five.
And it was heaven he knew was his place.
So he did what anyone would down there.
In the dark and no longer young.
He crossed his chest and uttered a prayer.
Closed his eyes and swallowed his tongue

26

Twenty five of them, she’d counted as they’d sung Happy Birthday in the small restaurant that they insisted was her favourite. The other candle must have dropped off somewhere, or the staff at establishment had been given false information. Exasperated by their inclination to not really care. But there they were now, twenty five of them standing up in the frosty platform as her friends and family chorused in with the jubilation. She smiled patiently, looking at the other couples in the place staring at her in quiet satisfaction that it were she that were the spectacle.

The song ended, and they all applauded as she blew out the misleading twenty five burning flames that represented her life on the planet. She hadn’t done it for years, but this time she made a wish while she blew, closing her eyes to make them all disappear for her small moment of intimacy with the universe. The applause died down and she blinked back into reality, reaching for her glass to silently toast her desire. The cake was whisked away from her by the staff, to be dissected for all in attendance, and listened to the others at the table talking about their own progressive years and the fear of reaching thirty, or forty; or whichever milestone society had pegged out for them all to have achieved a certain thing by.

Her mother asked if she’d had a nice time so far. She sat there next to her in her one good dress, or so it seemed, the one she saved for extra special occasions. She had spilt a little something on it up by her neckline, a drip from the red wine she had eagerly been enjoying that evening. She wondered if it would come out, or if this were its swan song evening. She nodded in reply, saying something about having a lovely time and how nice it was everyone could make it.

It was a half-truth really. Though she appreciated the effort all had made, she would have been happy spending the evening at home. She drew a circle of eight on the tablecloth as her mother returned to her friend whom she’d brought with her that evening. Circling around the small stain of her own that had bled into the white landscape that stretched out before her. Her boyfriend squeezed her knee, chatting animatedly with her friend Paul next to him who had turned up late, pushing himself into a space at the head of the tiny table.

She sighed, and took another sip from her glass. It was already 10pm, and she could hear people talking about ordering another round and some coffees to go with her cake. She picked up the small travel journal that lay on the table behind her, a gift she’d opened earlier from her sister who couldn’t be there that evening since she was on the other side of the world. She’d sent her a small, yet expensive looking journal, tied up with old flight tickets from her own exhaustive travels around the planet. She opened it up, noticing a small message at the front:

“Time waits for no (wo)man”

Typical of her, she’d thought, and reached behind to put the book back onto the pile of gifts and treats everyone had nicely brought with them. She sat there again, quietly watching the others. For her own celebration, no one had really spoken to her much that night. She seemed liked a stranger at her own party, lost in crowd of noise, feeling like a spectator to someone else’s play.

She had work in the morning, and she was getting tired. She spotted Katy; her friend from the office who had come with her girlfriend and sat the other side of the table. Laughing and drinking with such ease. Unlike Katy, she hated her job, which she’d started about six months ago and had been miss-sold from the start at what it would entail. The office was grey and dull, and their building was tucked away on the side of town that bled into the industrial estate. She had promised everyone she would look for something else, but hadn’t done so yet; owing herself the biggest apology for being so lazy. Her boyfriend squeezed her knee again, his constant sign of being both there and absent as he drank his beer and chatted with her friend whom, she could tell already, had hastily becoming intoxicated.

The cakes arrived back at the table, the waiting staff smiling as they placed the tiny plates in front of the guests and took orders for more drinks. She pushed her chair back, about to excuse herself, when she realised either side of her were both consumed in their own conversations, so she said nothing. She apologised to a waiter as she accidently bumped into her, nearly sending the birthday slice high up into the air; and made her way towards the bathroom. She stopped, only for a second, and then walked straight passed it.

She left the restaurant, and out into the cold night air where she exhaled deeply, standing on the street. A few other diners stood by the door, sending their smoke swirling around the door like a revolving dragon. She stood there herself now, still in the night with her arms down by her side. Her fingertips moving to a secret rhythm only she could hear. She turned to glance into the restaurant, its glass steamed up slightly due to the dropping temperature outside. She watched as all at her table continued on their merry gathering, laughing and enjoying themselves.

“Avant que ça ne se produise.” She muttered under her breath, and started up the street, in the wrong direction to home.

Sending myself flowers

When the universe rests, and slumbers in my mind.
And all around me is still.
I take this chance to apologise.
For who I have become. For who I wanted to be.
An apology for me.
Within these cracks and slithers of my soul.
That remain unfettered to moral decay.
I brush the hurt away. And send myself flowers.
Hoping to turn over those leaves, and find you.

Too cold for snow

Caught in the teardrop, that’s trapped in time.
Shivering into something unfamiliar.
These bite marks plague me still.
Itching my skin like memories.
If you just let me go.
Watch me walk into that dying star.
Into the fire.
So encased in fear. This icy realm of apathy.
Too hurt to start again.
Too tired of being tired.
Looking at the grey sky in your eyes as you whisper.
It’s too cold for snow.

Beneath

To live alive, and breathe and sigh.
Is folly to an untrained eye.
But to harken devils down in the depths;
of that blackest sorts. Whose intent unknown.
Leaves me shaking to the bone.
But in that sea where monsters dwell.
There lies a ruin, an unknown hell.
Yet I cannot bask in that sunlit waste.
It leaves me breathless, returning home post haste.
Into myself where I shine and glow.
A truthfully tale.
We all swim below

The Buildings melted

Watching the horizon through tempered glass.
Silhouettes that block out the sun.
Only for a moment.
A moment too long.
The flames lick at his desk, eating away the wood.
Tapping on his soul.
They corrode the walls around him.
Destroying fibreglass and dreams of tomorrow.
He tries to block out the voices.
Scratching inside his skull like rats in a well.
Closing his eyes. Out through the glass.
Trying not to think about the ground.
Going to the place a million miles away.
A place his family dwells.
He feels the rush through his bones.
The ache of his heart.
The monstrous shadow of hate.
Oil soaked fingers opening Pandora’s box to fate.
That hostile future carved out by domestic architects.
In his long way down.
His final symphony of strings and sirens.
Crumpling into the dust as he sets himself free with a final tear.
Watching from above moments later.
As the realm and the buildings melt.

Down within

Down to the water’s edge.
Beneath the willow and the sadness.
He stopped his world for a while.
No hand to pull him back.
Only invisible fingers pushing him forward.
Reeling in his mind like spinning wheels.
He lay on the cold bank.
Shedding his tears into deeper pools.
Pouring out his misery and loneliness.
Until he drowned the flying fish.
An ice crept across the water.
Licking his bones and sealing his eyes tight.
His heart caught between a beat and a break.
Hurrying this ice-age that would sweep the world away.
Yet he does not dwell unobtainably with the gods.
Or at the end of a book to placed on the shelf.
His small pool of sorrow lies within.
Every time the change of seasons ring.
Each day your body sways and splits..
He aches once more for the shore.

Wash over me

The thread from my bones was caught and tugged.
Stuck on that rootless tree.
That dying ember.
Give me a place where it’s quiet in my head.
To rest and melt away.
This lake-shore I wander upon, littered with Prozac pebbles.
Stubs my heart and calls me to the water’s edge.
Reflected in the glassy eye of tomorrow.
Is nothing of what I cherish today.
As birds fly above, they swoop in and steal my thoughts.
There is no protector of my mind.
Leaving me numb and silent.
Dancing once more in the darkness.
To a rhythm only I can hear.

Tangle and vines

I don’t want to go there anymore.
The ivy lattices up my eyes.
And the night is too dark.
Please take this hand.
Side steps the pools and the pitfalls.
These things that never mean to hurt you.
Those beasts in the hedges with eyes so wild.
I’m sorry for what they did.
Trying to squeeze love from you.
This hurt doesn’t change a thing.
Ripped from your flesh and allowed you too tumble.
Falling out of that perfect dream.
Tangled up in the vines that leaked from me.
Spun from the forest of regret.
Sit now, let me lick your wounds by the brook.
Make a splint from broken branches and apologies.
Counting tears like satellites in your eyes.
Taking me away.
Catching reasons like clouds as they float by.
Take this vanishing  hand.
As I depart from the noise and the sorrow.
Departing this earth.
With your smile in my mind.
The only memory I’m keeping

Little terrors

Once upon a night, when his mother had gone to bed.
Sam took a loaded gun, and aimed it at his head.
He did this for reasons that were many and few.
And you would have done the same, if only you knew.
What had become of Sam and the nightmares in his brain.
The horrors that sped into his soul, faster than a train.
He had tried to subdue them, pretending they weren’t real.
But they’d come all the same, leaving no other appeal.
But to end his life and to disappear completely.
So he tied up his world, and ended it so neatly.
He closed his bedroom door, and took a sip from his glass.
Placed it on the table, then watched the clock till ‘quarter past.
The midnight hour, when the ghouls were at their most.
The demons that terrorized him. The sad haunting ghosts.
He placed the gun in his hand, shot once after praying.
Fell to his knees, as another innocent slaying.
For Sam wasn’t mad, and he wasn’t even crazy.
Sometimes he was wrong, and definitely lazy.
But the devil was alive and well, and spoke to him every hour.
Wanted him to do these things, and made his dreams so sour.
But Sam was just unhappy, and mentally possessed.
And he saw this his only ending, because he was so depressed.

Let the misery in with the rain

Unpacking the rain. Unboxing winter.
Wringing out the sweat of summer and the misery of me.
Dog eared and delicate.
Gnawed on by ghosts.
So sing me to sleep, with the lullaby of love.
Hold me in honeycomb.
Preserve me forever in your arms like ambers touch.
These simple things make me stumble.
Blind in the room of the forgetful.
Reaching for walls that are never there.
Only see through ceilings.
Promising such sweet delicious skies above.
Sat waiting for the clouds to roll in.
A result of crushed dreams and broken down frowns.
A product of such misery.

Fracturing

Tiny fractures creep long my skin.
Filthy fingers finding their way.
Trying to pull it all apart.
The pleasure is all theirs, swinging into their chaos.
Let go, show me forgiveness.
My own brand of consistency.
They eat away the hope like cancer.
Cutting my elastic mind of understanding.
Turning the strong stone of integrity to chalk.
Applauding as the dust floats away on the wind.
Covering another soul in despair.

Heartbeat weary

My lungs are aching and my legs are tired.
Trying to keep up with you.
Running for your freedom, leaving me behind.
Washed over and smashed, like a stone in the river.
Jagged, not smoothed by your love.
And all the while I cheer you on, applaud your departure.
Sometimes enough is just enough.
Too long have I thrown the rocks of reality at you.
Hurling mud and indifference.
Dirtying your window of tolerance.
Now it’s fight, flight, flee, collapse.
Feeling my heartbeat overbeat.
Waiting for it to cease.
Making it easier to leave.

Sacred heart

You say it’s all in my head.
But I know you’re breaking free, lifting out of this.
The silencing of souls.
An end must always have a start.
But I’m calling out for your help.
With every spread of your wing, the feathers ripped into me.
I turned your heart to stone, when I should have covered it in gold.
The sacred treasure you gave to me.
The walls were thin, and it fell to easy
I stepped on it with my muddy shoes, squeezing out the oxygen and love.
Now I’m in the court of the karma kings, waiting for the sentence.
Waiting to be shown which way to go.
The thief who stole all at the beginning, hungry for the love.
Becoming the custodian of your sacred heart.
Only to wind up with empty hands and lonely tears.
Benedetto sia il cuore più affettuoso.
Ci riportano alla bella partenza.

Lonely tree

In the forest, all alone.
My lonely tree feels as cold as stone.
Surrounded everywhere by branches.
That bend and twist to their own advantage.
We shake in the wind, and shiver in sadness.
Sunken in our disturbing madness.
Until one day you came into the woods.
Scared the animals and riding hood.
Yet the wolves they ran, and hid like rabbits.
Convoluted out of their own bad habits.
And into my glade you stepped so proudly.
And struck a match and yelled out loudly:
“Love is a flame that burns us under!”
And as quick as lightening, you lit me like thunder.
So my lonely tree, burned quick and sadly.
And I faded away, into death quite glady.

Subterranean

Waking up under.
Blinking to, shutting out the light.
All this talk about love, despite the things I tell you.
Diving down into dark wonder, awakening those things that never sleep.
Like mean bats eating moths, these thoughts in my head gather and disseminate.
The good ones are nearly dead.
With the coming storm, the rains of the deep. The belly of this beast.
They’re muddled in their intent, their self-proactive despondence.
But the storm surprises, the hail brings you back to me.
Quietening the earthquake of my soul. Soothing the monsters in the dark.
Those subterranean doubts and needless whispers. Like a poisoned spider.
The rain is like you; everywhere. Washing away the grey.
Shutting down the gloom and stripping the world you will live in.
Covering the cave for eternity.

Insatiable beings

Picking at the itch, scratching at the pain.
I unfurl my skin and peak inside. Where my subconscious lies.
The reasoning for all my trauma, the soul I once tried to hide.
I seek them now, in my quiet isolation. In this quiet reflection.
This pensive state saddens me, it makes me wonder what I was thinking.
The justifications for existence slip away into the dust of tomorrow.
Analysis this then please Sigmund Freud: My heart beats inside a skull while the brain drifts into the unknown.
I am subservient, I crawl to meet their needs. The spineless state of perfection that I secretly enjoy.
What mold did I break from, why are these thoughts no longer my own?
I wriggle and writhe in the sub text of this love, the self-serving reasoning and boot licking.
Underneath that there lies my clinging behaviour. My abandonment factor.
The mildly reassuring nature of my schizophrenic tendencies, knowing I’m never alone.
I sit and chew the fat, and choke on the truth in this carnival of sinners.