past

past trauma

put lips to old pain

feel it flutter and still

poison drawn, paused

 

these untidy

memories and broken bits of games

horror of untethered high-wires

 

and never good enough

lifetime’s untruths, dissembling

nervous-held handbag

 

run tongue over protrusions

puffed proud tissue

give it wine, buy clothes

 

in the body aches

pleasurepunish chafes

adorned, adored

 

addictions rise from secret spots

manacles like friends

again, again, again

 

strip away snailsmooth streaks

knife scars, sear words

seal                    it up

momentary grace

 

 

It’s been more than a month since my last post, argh! I’ve been working 100% and the time just slips by. It’s a rather doomy poem to return with. Inspired by an excellent podcast featuring Russell Brand and Gabor Mate on addiction and past trauma. Short version here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rQwP0XRBjq4 Long version (worth it!) here:  https://www.russellbrand.com/podcast/053-dr-gabor-mate-damaged-leaders-rule-addicted-world/ 

Photo: Ivan Bandura on Unsplash  https://unsplash.com/@unstable_affliction

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Autumn again

Photo: Claire Doble

 

the nostalgia of street corners

so ordinary and familiar

little things that stack up to life

one step, step, step

day after day

years, even

and in autumn

when everything’s dying off after abundance

I weep

over a final mundane journey

ragged leaves scuffing my way

a boy outgrown/ growing up

a closing door

era’s end

and like a film, it’s golden in there

that final crack of light

glowing yellowbrick road curling

back to the recent past

even the tough times

I know. I knew, I know

how shit things were/are/were

but they’re already bathed

in the liquidamber of sealed memory

the beauty

of inaccessibility (don’t ever change!)

and what if I’m only now getting used

to accepting the seasons

and it’s all starting to make sense

and I could relax into it

just about

feel the lull of acceptance

a way life could be?

and I know every other fucking poet

said it already

but this is mine

 

Photo: Claire Doble

 

 

 

Dragon Breath

 

And I thought about what someone far away was doing

imagined

a length of yellow-white fabric with words printed on it

fluttering near a bedroom window

 

Someone flying long-haul in a plane through dark sky

right now, that twilight world of

stale-cold air, engine hum, the fittings’ faint rattle and the rustle

of other people

 

A view over the rooftops of buildings

(see the city’s ripped back sides)

 

Stepping alone into an early-morning kitchen

he puts on the light

feeling the unheated floor and seeing crumbs on the benchtops

makes no move to clean them away

 

The pattern: blush of bright pink, royal blue and orange

imprinted behind closed eyes

intersected with black, it’s a piece of clothing

that existed cheaply, wonderfully, in a previous decade