Posts Tagged ‘writing try-outs’

Estate Wind

Posted: May 26, 2019 in Chat
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Minister of my manor, my estate;
the highrise and the tenement were meant for me
by birthright. I was priest and bishop,
sold solace by the ounce; wrote my likeness
in swirls up stairwells, portraits on walls,
in lifts. Tagged cars and the basement blocks,
the ground itself, train and truck. None could
know to go without my say-so. All dollies with babies,
men in day jobs, night work,
mine.

But it came to pass graffiti began to seem
just gross; how it all meant nothing to no one.
And the end came quicker day by day,
sending messages hourly, saying, Silence.
Stop.
Blank.

I’d turned my manor to a wasteland;
worst as best. People tried to climb out;
I pulled them back, so’s not to be alone
with the wreckage I’d made. I could not
break out of my own cage, watched as the bones
of my hands could keep nothing held, the holes
in my skull hear, see, know, nothing. All this was
my worse. The emptiness I had made, mine
for always.

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Suit

Posted: April 7, 2019 in Chat
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Chatting with the agent about that suit,
the finest linen shot through with silk,
how I just had to, my pocket stuffed
with mortgage money, and the subscript
Downpayment, Downpayment – how only that suit
could save me from mediocrity
and steer us both into the future
we dreamed as rightfully ours, but denied –
your coming-out ball, faux-debutante,
and my place in that new society, reserved,
wanting only that suit, the final tie,
the puzzle of our existence solved.

Obsessive, passionate, fixed,
and conniving –
the more words I splashed in its honour
the less I was me, it was as if
I was sold even before I’d bought myself

 

The Waits

Posted: March 31, 2019 in Chat
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Tch-twch on the line and then the express train
bow wave creases air over the platform’s yellow line,
mocking with a hug, then with repulsion lets go.
And all the lights up the line on hold.
Their freighted busy musk bastes our complacence;
we are for their passing a blur of architecture,
a waiting room. They are tubes of furred air.

We have each been where the others are;
there is no division. We are not that, we are
where and what we are. Tomorrow different;
tomorrow we swap roles, sides, minds.

 

from Gone South

It happens as soon as you step off the train. Everyone savours it, a look of pleasure lighting up chinks of harried business faces, care-worn mothers trawling lines of squabbling children. Gil couldn’t make it out. That smell. What on earth…? He topped the road outside the train station and was hit by a gleaming brightness; it shifted, twinkled, blinded.
The sea.
He had often heard about it. This was the smell.
The sea.
It drew him on, hungry as he was, drew him down those extra miles, to its gleaming wonder. He stood on the promenade holding the rail in the cooling inshore wind. He breathed deeply.
It was high tide, and crested waves lapped and licked at the sea wall a yard below him. He stood, mesmerised.

He clutched the steel rail tightly, but still the suck and surge below him pulled; it was as though the solid concrete of the promenade was almost liquid.
He looked at the green of the sea; it shone like a lizard’s back. But the smell that came from it, when it belched on the sea wall – something ancient and beyond musty, beyond rotten, something older than any of it.
The City and its concerns were not even a dot in its memory.

He looked into it, and it looked back, into him, found a kinship there somewhere.
Then it released him.
He was doused in a cold sweat, mouth and throat dry as sand, muscles taut. It released him, and he sagged, still holding the rail.
He could turn away at last; he turned and never came back again.

This was Eridu, city by the sea.