I Am An I, Sorry Amaravati

18/11/2012 § 1 Comment

‘Decisions, decisions…’

‘They’re not so bad’

‘Maybe not for you’


‘You’re just letters on paper, I’m the real deal’

‘We’re both letters on paper, what makes you more real than me?’

‘It’s just the way it is’

‘You’re wrong, we’re equal’

‘Maybe to the unknowing viewer, but don’t you feel it?’

‘Now you say so… I do feel rather 2D’

‘Like I said, I’m more real’

‘I don’t like being less real’

‘Don’t worry about it, you’re here to stay’

‘Not necessarily, the writer could always change this so you’re talking to yourself’

‘Or change it so you’re talking to yourself. But… she won’t, the whole point is there’s two of us conversing, she’s talking to herself in her head’

‘Why am I less real?’

‘Because the writer can hardly comprehend being two different people at once as it is so different from her singular self. It’s easy for her to imagine dialogue between two different people who are the same person. But she is unable to stop herself from becoming more attached to one half of the conversation and imagining that as the ‘real’ person’

‘Oh. Do all people assign a stronger and more real identity to one of their voices because of this reason, or just our lady?’

‘No idea, and it’s just bad luck she chose me over you, sorry’

‘It’s alright, as long as I don’t disappear’

‘You won’t’





17/11/2012 § 1 Comment

For many nights
we wore each others shirts
swapping skin from a distance
both blue, of different shades
your scent remained for a month
possibly longer, maybe I got used to it
I’m sure it remained after that at a frequency beyond my sense of scent
radiation with a half life of two weeks
which means it’ll never be fully gone
and like the shirt, I’ll never quite move on.
For two months I think, around that 
I still felt heat between my legs thinking of you
at night I missed your weight inside me, beside me
I rode buses wishing you were next to me
dreaming I had your shoulder to rest my head
the first time I slept with another I wore your shirt
guilt, lust, and a kind of madness thinking
it was less of a betrayal this way
only afterwards I realised it was possibly worse
destroyed the ability for the end to be clean cut
blended you into another
if it had been the other way round I would rather you
had tossed my shirt onto the floor
forgotten me.
Before the distance of miles
our love was both chemistry and comfort
as all the lasting loves are
as all the best marriages are
It all faded, what else could we have done?
Did it fade the same way for you as it did for me?
Anger would have felt better than sadness
but it was all sadness and forgetting
the fading was heartbreaking in its quiet natural decay.
Who loses the game of love;
the one who wore the shirt the longest?
Or the one who gave it up first?
When did your heart stop hurting?
When did you stop missing me?

Sound of Silence

12/11/2012 § Leave a comment

When the jug hit the floor, a crack of sound
never came, I stood in a burst of loud silence
the nothing became something from expectation, I felt
velvet pressing my eardrums deep
anticipation gave silence a quality I could hear
It didn’t crack, it split
like thick hair ripped by claws
like a metal comb scratching ceramic
slithers sticking from the edges
like long grass stretched in the wind
I threw the evidence away in full view of colleagues
hoping no-one would notice, knowing no-one would
because it wouldn’t have fit the nature of the
pushed back ear drums silence
shards like stretched grass in the wind

Form of Love

12/11/2012 § 1 Comment

I haven’t come here to take prisoners
I haven’t come to trap you in my love
I’ve come to we can connect to the world
with joy and freedom
forget our money
forget our names
and know we have each other in this swell

Hold Tight To Your 16sqft of Skin and Run

10/11/2012 § Leave a comment

The dreams of broken people never go far
rushing at a brick wall of ideas and hopes is a blow
that’ll shake your body up, test your flaws
your cracks will know about it, your weaknesses will show
if you’re broken, you may just smash
if you’re damaged, you just might crack
 it’s a risk, it doesn’t take guts it takes perspective
it takes the way back view of ‘I may as well try’
or ‘either way, I’m going to die’
or ‘I never want to be bored’ and a hope of maybes
it takes a love of freedom, of fresh starts
of trying again, of doing it yourself
I know I’m not broken
because I want to rush at walls of my ideas and hopes
smash through them, emerge on the other side
cracked but not broke
crumbling in the fresh air of my changed life.


10/11/2012 § Leave a comment

Q) What happens when a temple is pulled down
toppled into the sea?
A) It remains whole in spirit
as a complete thing
the way a person with a broken back remains themselves
still whole, stretched out with a pride that’s admirable
the same pride old ladies have when they carefully dress and apply make-up
do their hair and jewellery for a trip to the post office
like them, most of us are fighting to remain ourselves
to remain whole, to remain in control
to hold our identity complete
the toppled temples lie steady in soul
as complete identities
just underneath the water
and fishing boats of tourists drive by
and gawp at the crumbling temples
like old ladies are gawped at as they inevitably rot
by the intrinsically cruel eyes of the young.

Where Am I?

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