Why would I?
You keep asking like
it’s some sort of possibility
like this is,
was,
and will be
a good idea
while it never used to be and
while I don’t regret that
day,
that time,
that breath,
I do regret
whatever I did that left you with the
impression that this could be
something other than
what it was,
and hasn’t been
for years.

You could be looking at me
right now without knowing.
Some random woman
who was no woman
when you knew her,
apparently.
Who are you to determine for me,
my being,
to assign me a self
reflection is what is needed.
For who continuously
tries to bed that which is
‘not yet’ a woman?
A nonce that’s who.
A nonce with no more maturity
than the cheap cheese
that sits in the fridge and is used
only for a cheeky toastie.
Your years are plentiful,
your tricks the same
yet you refuse to adapt
and walk in this
new world
a world where your voice is
no louder than mine.

I never asked what you thought
or wanted
from me
me-ing all the damn time.
I just acted for me,
for my own tomorrow.
If I’d been up shit creek
you’d have drowned
or doggy paddled away.
If I’d had brought your wants
into this for the briefest flash
we’d have
stayed together
for a few months more.
And I know for you,
this sacrifice is normal,
this grand altered
ritual but it’s not
about you and it’s not been
for some time.
I know you’re used to
grooming on your stage-
common with men of a
certain age
but times change
and you’ll never be
old enough
for me.

Who makes the call
on my calling in this life
worth living only if
I can do this
one thing.
Who ultimately boils down
the milk to my day
and churns the subjective to
that of object
and matters of fact
that we will never be privy to
but you,
you might be.
If your name is loud enough
and its meaning adored
enough then you might be able
to tell me if I am indeed
enough.
Would you tell me that
this tiny hinting
inkling of a notion was
just a ruse, a whole lot
of commotion for nothing,
and I’m to move on
with a thank you
and a handshake.
That my convicted hope
was poorly placed in
amongst the gin
and the dope
and it went to my head
but got lost on the way,
and there it stays
as stubborn as stubborn
can be, which for me
is impressive.
I will not stop running
unless you shoot at my feet
and then I might mistake
it for succor.
Do the the right, the kind
the business minded thing.

Stop trying to claim me.
I am not yours to own,
to covet and
show off to a world
that doesn’t even care
that you want me for
your vanity.

I am not an extension
of your ill trimmed tree
nor a leaf on your
unstable branch.
My face, my hair
my blood and my skin
I grew on my own.

My beauty is mine,
my conscience is mine
and my soul that’s spun
from my trauma that you
gave me is
mine.
Let me wave in my breeze.

Impossible is dangerous,
And a challenge to the soul.
Your brain nods to your mind, which will
Break it to your heart
That she must tell your soul
That it simply cannot be.
It shouldn’t have been let down there,
And now she won’t let go.
You give an inch, she takes a mile,
And should you retrieve it,
She’ll dissolve.

And the soul knows it well,
But teases tickle the tough, and alight
their Trojan spirits.
They charge into a flanked wall of
Impossible dreams,
Blanketed in barbs, still as stone.
Shattered and sprayed
Into tiny pieces of church glass,
They catch the light,
For the most beautiful pain.

One would never learn,
But it gets one out of bed.
Listen to french music,
Sip on coffee, bake some bread.
Impossible is dangerous,
And it’s not for risky fools
but I’d rather be in danger
Than chain dear Soul to rules.
Sweet Soul can nod up to my heart
Which can break it to my mind
That she must tell my brain
To allow Soul to be blind.

With petals sculpted from stone,
Covered in moss,
And a pollen (dustings of the few
kindnesses She’s been granted),
She lives. She blooms still.

She’s no one’s flower.
Planted among ash,
She spins it to gold;
when I’m weary She
lends me rain.

Tolerates, but never suffers.
For any fool should be
so lucky that She gives
them a moment and
trades it for peace.

I owe Her the world,
which owes Her more
and perhaps one day
we’ll square up,
in a cafe on the corner.

She’s owed the best
soil and the brightest sunlight,
the prettiest pot and the
purest air,
but pizza in the bath will have to do.

Spin me a new world,
a fresh plain
from golden thread
that weaves through
spindled fingers
under a firm brow
and a loving heart.

Mould me a new day,
in a new time
from deepest clay
encouraged
with gentle palms
coated in pearly drops
between the wisest oak.

Weave me a new soul,
a fresh heart
from ancient tapestries
of red, gold and green.
With the wisest eyes
and thimbled tips.
Sew the old lessons in.

I’m so glad that you like me,

it really means a lot

that you care enough about my

existence to talk to me

and give me your moments.

I am incredibly flattered that
my spirit resides
in some part of your memory often
enough to consider me
‘Close’.

Now, favours are not something
that I often distribute
nor do I collect,
but on this one occasion
please, I beg

Do not invite me to your wedding.
I care for you, I do,
but the thought of watching you
dance for your keepers
shatters the picture of you I keep.

I’m sure you dance so well,
in fact I know you do,
but I won’t march in your circus
for the sake of the god you’ve
never prayed to.

I care not for your family,
who I don’t really know,
nor the kin that belong to your beau
and I would only come to sample
the gin, (will you have gin?)

I care about you, my friend
so much that I’m willing
to give up my place among
your thoughts if it gives me
my freedom.

So do not invite me to your wedding,
Nor showers, nor appointments alike.
Save me from prediction
and release me from your expectation.
Let me fly with the strangers.

To be whole

would be a lovely,

empty thing.

Bricks of your being, never

flung to far the corners,

would be a painless,

silent life.

My ashes now lay

in some boxes here,

a hilltop there.

My air fills the odd room,

and lingers in the road.