I don't want to write a poem.
I don't want to think of words that fit,
that slot together,
like they were made to.
I don't want to think of some witty, outlandish,
that makes complete sense,
none at all.
I don't want to manipulate letters,
to wind words around each other,
in between each other
to create some perfect concoction.
I don't want to start over,
When the words are
all over my page
in all the wrong ways.
When my mind
says one thing
and my fingers vehemently
I don't want to write a poem - Emma Blackwell
No Name #4 -
I am entertainment in your eyes.
I burn bright for your interest.
I dance to your tune in swelling gestures. As a caveman would you watch with delight.
Lower your hand to my incandescence only to be blistered with regret.
Now I wither, for tending to is not your concern now
I subside, for my tinder is charred now
I suffocate, for my air is drawn by you.
- Scales of the lesser spotted lizard-owl
- A star, plucked from the sky and ground into powder
- A divine law, misinterpreted
- An older, long-forgotten divine law, interpreted correctly
- The only copy of a photograph, taken at least seven years prior
- Bottled dreams (do not let escape)
- A promise to not regret, never regret (never, ever) (ever ever)
- Tears, unspilled
A difficult list, but finally complete. The last was the hardest, but I did not cry. I will not cry. Not when I am this close. I am so very close.
I pour the dreams into a furnace and use them to melt the laws. I rip the photograph, and piece by piece, cast it in as well. The star, the scales, and the promise are mixed and added to the cooling mixture. Finally, I steep it in the absence of tears and it shimmers an unholy uncolour, that coils and rages. I whisper the words so that it may not miss, and all may be made right.
When I see them, they walk up to me, and I don’t know what to feel. Anger, pain, hatred, pity. They all mix and blur together till I cannot tell one from the other, much like the ingredients in the squirming hex that I hold in my hand. So I just glare at them.
They look down at their feet. “Um, I’m sorry,” they say, “I’m sorry for what I did, and I hope you can forgive me.”
I drop the writhing thing, and it falls. But it is too late. I promised not to regret, never regret (never, ever) (ever ever). The only sound is the hex clattering to the ground, and with a hiss it alights.
As everything goes up in fire and frost, I finally allow myself to cry.
Tears, unspilled - Atom Gush
Fit into the slipper.
You know you want to
Cut off your toes and slice your heels for him,
Clean his clothes, make his food.
Fit into the slipper,
Make sure you're not too loud nor too quiet,
Don’t cry - you’ll smudge your makeup,
the makeup you spent hours putting on
just for him.
And even if he hates you don’t stop trying because you’re only here to please him.
Fit into the slipper.
It may be glass but the blood and bruises will be worth it for a single glance from him.
Dance when he tells you to,
Smile when he tells you to,
Cry when he tells you to.
Hear him shout but do not cry because he loves you,
And it will displease him.
Fold his clothes,
Make him happy,
Just fit into the slipper,
Can’t be that hard, right?
I have a special spot
I like to go at night
I can see everything and sometimes people walk past me
they don't know I'm here
or maybe they do
but they don't really see me
sometimes it's couples walking along the water
sometimes it's just a single person
who stopped to take a photo
i can watch it get dark
or watch the sun come up
but in the place i can stop
and just feel everything
but what i think makes this a special spot
is that it doesn't belong to me
or the hundreds of other people that have passed through
or grown up on it
it's just a playground
that's what makes it so special
Special spot -
Begin with a good workout at the gym. Tenderise the legs so as to incentivise you to lie down later.
Take a long bath, the optimal time is 75 minutes. While in the bath read a good book, exciting enough to be engaging, not exciting enough to stop weary eyelids from drooping. Don’t dwell on the fact your name will be forgotten within three generations. Whilst simmering, turn on the excellent Spotify playlist to 45% volume.
Pause Spotify playlist. Slip into clean pyjamas; greet happy cats as they are likely to be missing you by now. Ignore lingering feeling that your friends don’t really like you and you’ve tricked them all. Collect a bowl of ice cream from the kitchen to properly cool off.
Sit in front of computer and season to taste with preferred recreational activity, e.g. Games, Writing, Drawing. Cease pondering the meaning of life or lack thereof. Resume the Spotify playlist and leave to cool for up to two hours.
Return to the kitchen and pour chai latte into a large mug (decaf if caffeine affects you). Don’t think about how on average your mother will only live another 25 years. Put the kettle to boil for the hot water bottle.
Feed impatient cats. Don’t think about how you will outlive them and their children's children, and ensure they are properly scratched before pouring the hot water bottle.
Return to bedroom with the hot water bottle and mug of chai. Spread heavy cloak over the bed. Acknowledge that your time on the planet isn’t even a speck on the vast expanse of eternity. If the cats were sufficiently scratched they will follow and climb onto cloak.
Slide under heavy covers. Continue reading the good book until eyes itch to close. Roll over and scratch cat behind the ears. Stop counting the sands draining out of the hourglass of life. Leave to cook for 11 hours.
1 Thick Quilt
1 Heavy Cloak
2 Happy Black Cats
1 Hot Water Bottle
2 Hours of exercise
1 Mug of chai latte
1 Bowl of ice cream
1 Hot bath
1 Computer with recreational
1 Excellent Spotify playlist
1 Good Book
1 Set of clean pyjamas
1 Overactive Brain
Prep Time: 6 hours
Cook Time: 11 hours.
Recipe for a Perfect Night's Sleep - 'Sparrow Driver-Burgess'