You Try But FailMy skin is paper; scrawl your name across my cheek
merging your inky hand with so many others.
It crackles beneath your touch but you don't hear.
You only see its smoothness, and you smile.
Run your fingers through my hair; it's wire
pulling power from the air to fuel my thoughts
And all you feel is the curl in your palm
All you know is that soft, shining cloak.
You take my hand, feel the warmth of my skin
pulling me close so you can get a better look.
You don't see the flow beneath the surface
The current running from the earth to my spirit.
Make your mark on me: a bruise, a love-bite
A half-moon wanes angrily on my breast
From the intensity of your desperate grip.
Underneath, the full moon glows
Shining so brightly it almost blinds me,
yet still you're in the dark, fumbling
So far away from the energy that powers the soul.
SearedYou held me in arms spun with silver
that told of some long-forgotten pain.
Your skin melted across my chest - warm, fluid.
I heard your thumping heart stutter; desire and sweat and memories.
I felt your shallow breath on my shoulder
Burning through blistered skin to throbbing muscle
I liquefied under your heat.
Flame-tipped fingers traced designs of gold
in the sinuous skin of my spine. Soundlessly,
you spoke to my nerves, made of white-hot tin
a metallic tang to your silent voice, piercing me.
Motionless, we embraced, a permanent fusion
of passion and need and desperation, formed
by those few moments of hunger for fire.
Bathroom of LoveTwo toothbrushes; one pink, one blue
sit on the sink in their plastic cup, kissing.
the tube of toothpaste looks strangely lonely
outcast by its size, its shape, its single status.
a razor gives a sharp look, as though appalled
by such a blatant public display of affection.
the tap weeps a slow trickle of lukewarm tears
as it is stuck so far away from its cold mate.
the mirror reflects the scene, the toothbrushes
glance slyly into its reflection, noticing the audience
and continue to kiss in their smug universe.
MummyI remember a boat made of sand.
My mother hand-carved it on the beach
while my sister and I followed Daddy
to the ice-cream van in search of cones.
The boat was simple, we sat inside
and pretended to be pirates. To me,
That boat was (still is) a work of art.
We were sad when it was washed away
but there was always next year.
I remember a cake on my fifth birthday.
Home-made, in the shape of my favourite
children's television character. It was
The best present I received that year.
I still have a photograph of it, imperfect;
It would have won no decoration awards.
But to my five-year-old mind (and now)
it was the most perfect thing I had ever seen.
No cake could ever live up to my birthday cake.
I remember a sleepover with my 'bestest' friends.
We were small, loud, bouncy things – so young.
Mummy bought plain pizza bases for us
and lined up every topping imaginable
in little bowls. We had fun; the kitchen covered
in tomato puree and mashed tuna fish.
Claim to FameMr. Cleary the grocer said to me:
"I have a friend
Boss's uncle's friend's
Wife's nephew's brother-in-law
Bought a goldfish
From a man, whose niece's
Boyfriend's father's brother's
Cleaner's doctor's grandmother's
Social worker's mother…
Once shook hands with Rolf Harris.
Are you impressed?"
I said yes I was.
Muddy DaysWellington boots
Those wonderful 'wellies';
Don't you just pray
For muddy days
So you can go out:
And splash… splash…
And get those wellies
Wet, dirty and horrible…
But, with dry socks and warm toes
Safe in the knowledge that those welly boots
Will be sparkling and beautiful
When you hose them off again.