sugared

2025

i'm unsure
but the chew of the bottle
the gummy bounce pull
the cola chew kindess that uncovers the wool

feels nice
to play in the pick and mix
with his unattainable words
complexity desired
could be
shouldn't be
bitten away by senescence

kindness sincere
whole as a sugar jellied ring
placed on juvenile fingers

but also lacking an animosity desired
through the push and pull of a father never wanting
needing
only loving
through saccharine grand gestures

a packet of sweets after the rain
always feels electric

but saving one per day
might just keep
(my sellotaped door unsure)
nightmares
away

blipping vinyl

crackle pops on the smooth oil slick of a circle -
gallowed grooves engrave the sphere shape of its flow

and on unkempt soil i grew me -
(in a cyclical fashion mind you)

so here i am
so sliding -
coping
coaxing
finding - composure
in the past joy of a sound.

and in the coatings of coping,
this noise bleeds right on through me

i'm reminded of her -
too unseen to know why
she can never remember to look after even her most prized possessions

and as the record pops -
i'm lost and forgot.

choking on hoping to be seen -

nostalgick

i mourn for the past as a styrofoam cake

glass cherries filled with clouds of beguiling garble

my sentiments feel heavier than the chemicals they sit upon

and with every month bleeds engulfing surprise

in the guise of blackberry jam

i got you tangfastics

theres beauty in the bottle
the gummy bounce pull
the cola chew kindness that uncovers the wool
and as i pass the pack
to you and back
you've fished out all the cherries for me
they look like hopefully fizzy grand gestures


- or a saccharine blip -
in the dip and the flip
that encircles your connection to mine

easy
too sticky
-just fine-


yet if i had the time -
i'd teach you soliloquies
unattainable verse
i'd take each sweet
every smile
every feat
and dine inside sealed cellophane
with nothing but sugar to drown in

discordant attunement

i feel trauma bonded in a way
i'm crying into his arms wanting nothing but their touch
but touch is all they can give
no soliloquy of thought can transcend through his finger tips
no warm harmonic hug
can hold the depth of spoken sound
just space between ours fingers
in which
a thousand of my question
sits

too late to break the silence
for it is not up to i to guess
it is more right for i to be
safe in the freedom of me
authenticity
in speech
no longer teaching forlorn ability

i seek more than i love you
i'm sick of searching for just something in some wide eyed passive saucers
no symphony
just distance
and i can no longer ask for something unable to give

i mourn him
yet i seek to be seen
but instead of the words i so desperately need
what stops the tears
is his reminder
- his silence -
that i am doing the right thing
for me
finally

good enough

i am hopeful of joy through the processing

yet my childhood diaries were written like a stage
a presumption of what others wanted
should they ever read it
for sure they'd soak in every page?
with enough desperation to be seen they would

i designed my life to be penned with validatory applause

others had to know i matter
it had to be confirmed

i tried so hard in making what i was putting out there meant to be
for others to see
to be seen
with a pleading guise
i could be good enough

but who would read it? other than some dustbin or drab collector of 2086?

(they found it collecting dust on an ebay listing -
thought they'd give the old girl a chance)

but the only person reading was me

and i matter more than she ever thought i would
or did
or should

so the stage i grew up in
my pens now poked holes in
selfmade gold glistens through the eye of each puncture

light now peeking
im centre stage
but its only me watching
and my voice fills up the whole auditorium

for the first time with security
i don't sound half bad

this girl i hold

i feel thicker than a thousand suns over
a fortnight is faster
than the weightness below her

i am thickened
like choking on sand
i feel her
i feel me
i feel soles
soaked through land
a lullaby thicker than spit
i want to drown in it

it's the christmas bells
suffering me away like snow
i can only look back with love
and look centre with spittled sand
like smudged in a pepper corn eye type
i'm a blip in the flip of the lie type

i can never be joyous of the present
of the sturdy stone blunder of wonder i was
of the gold i wintered
of the pearl so candescent in the summer of me
of the bliss sang through the hope of me
the truly special of me
she deserves it
so why can't i
why can't i
please
be carried
in more than the silk of before

residual self

it's all moving faster than lightstreams
a clock regressive in its ticks

i look back on myself as if i were statues
yet the movements i make
exhibit stagnancy now
cyclical as stone
i have clouds in my judgements
it's a soup i dont own

in flavours named regular
i've concocted only bland
a cocoon that maroons me
where the salt tastes like sand

i'm tired though
of safety shaken on
i'm tired of living through performative action
regressed through authentication of my own conscience

was i every really there for myself
was i always on a stage?

how do i learn to accept what never was
or is

venn diagram

i'd love to own this on my own
what spots and circles make a home
as i'm sat here in the centre
feeling kind of oblong

less than more
i'm less alone

i find doting on the latter years
best

scared of a man that could make me whole
cheerful, deep, full, low
joy of stability that i chose to sow
so

i want to relish in the risk of the brisk
trauma is a stone that i skip

and as i bask in red
procrastinate a bed
i feel a wholeness saddened by a hole

that only i can see

so do i choke
do i break
do i seek
or do i sow

ophelia

i'd love to breathe water
a fluid crisper than air

i'd drop me down into that lake of mine
perfectly spherical
if you were to view it
from a birds eye

to look down upon me
sinking perfectly central
would be swell

i'd be alike that painting of a beautiful siren
drowned in linen
mousy brown locks gasping upwards for air

but no bird is watching
the lake is not a circle
and in the mystical syrup of it all
i realise that i cannot drink brine

but to resurface
feels unimaginable
resurrection is only for the gods
and anyhow
i've never liked the feeling
of water in my ears

you can have the window seat

without speaking
headphones on
he looks at clouds like fluffy babies out the womb
a wonder that radiates through me
feels whole as a child again

jitter shaped confetti radiates from his fingers
eyes pooled with a liquid blue silver
and what i take for granted
he takes for gold
an intake of breath
a hand to hold
and as the wing veers right
i'm reminded of life

feminine

not romantic
nor nice
a depths of hell
not shrouded in the tatters of a bitten black rose
singed petals
skinny whispers
drunken linen
rough spittled egg shell
contorting into porcelain

bones blown into reeds

a landscape
like you could plié right off of her navel
her nape a runway
dancing down to her rafters
toe nails shaped like emery diving boards
no driving forward
without the tag line of desirable
flat lining
cocooned in lily pads of wrinkled skin
left in a free for all

a no more

just word play
fraying
like being thirsty
and biting into a square of dry denim