Beginning

1 Attraction
2 Lust
3 Trepidation
4 Commitment
5 Love
6 Response
7 Despair
8 Hope
9 Lust/Love
10 Disappointment
11 Hope
12 Disappointment
13 Separation
14 Hope
15 Passiveness
16 Exhaustion
17 Separation
18 Loneliness
19 Acceptance
20 Anger/Hope
21 Anger
22 Acceptance
23 Understanding


Beginning



How to rise again
from this silt bed of my days
pluck up a foot
squidge on
I dig again
ashore, clocks tick
and snicker
at now in the past
all the lost hours clap
to the dig.

And I dig
for sediment lessons
fermenting
emotional broths
propelling plush hopes
to glimpse, yet
still I go down
to bull rocks
as I must
to climb and begin.



The end was easy to see now. Like beads on a string, all the signs could be slid together, pulled tight and cemented forever. At the time they were never joined. Or if they were, it was brief and easier to keep juggling them so as not to accept the connections they made. Connections predicting failure, despair and dysfunctionality. Outcomes that other people secretly held all the time. Sometimes they even said these things, but it was impossible to juggle and listen together, so an ignorant acceptance settled. The hardest thing to accept? Incompatibility. Eye-bulging, glaringly obvious incompatibility. This was apparent from the first date. She didn't turn up. Most people close to me thought 'why?'? Some even shouted it in frustration, but a second first date came and my story began.

Attraction

Instant eyes, bespeckled
fluttered
and gone
double glimpse
heart rises and rush
through a gambler's breath
hoping she looks
back
in curious smile.
I see us
stealing a hotel window
in communal space
none between
just a sash
of seminal silk
and
electro-magnetic looks.


There's always a moment. A tiny piece of conversation, so important and fast, or a seemingly long-life smile and stare, when you know there's attraction. It happened on a train and I stored it away, to replay over and over. I'd seen her maybe ten times in all. We always exchanged a glance, but never a word. Rarely a smile.
The train wheezed to a stop and I saw her through the window. She lifted her head, saw me and looked away. The doors slid open. She stepped off, flipped her hair, looked right at me and said 'hiya' with happy surprise and almost bravado. Brimming with attitude. Stepping on a busy train and twisting to squalk a response, I managed to stay on my feet, take a seat and flush. It was a week before I saw her again and we spoke. It was nine pm, as I nursed three quarters of a pint of Guinness in a nigh empty bar, she stepped in. With a flourish. There was tremendous flirting and later, different bar, I asked her if she would like to go out. In answer to her 'why?', I came up with a feeble 'cos I like you'. But we went out. She flashed all her sassiness at me, danced and sparkled in mischief and captivated me. Powerful mutual attraction is a difficult thing to stop. Impossible if it is desired. And so it went, full of desire.

I remember scraping past you in the kitchen
it may have been a Sunday
I was crisping bacon
under the clear plastic roof stabbed by rain
and filled with fried tomato smells.


I remember a dance we once both knew
I impressed you with my steps
at least I thought
about sitting face to face
and telling you who I am.


I remember your tights had holes
you didn't hide them
proudly flashing
I kissed you and laughed inside
gulping whiskey for nerves.


I remember a whisper in my ear
floating from under a bridge
I swerved it
ducking through jealous ignorance
your love for me.


I'll listen now
as I remember.







Lust

This is the impact. An explosion of breathlessness. A marathon, unquenchable urge. I was transfixed upon her. I was 90 miles an hour inside, all the time, when with her. I was running on adrenaline. We would see each other two or three times a week and in between, I'd forget what electric charge she had. But not for long. I'd fidget and twirl; twist and spin. She was under my skin in minutes. Rushes of desire swept over me and I became impestuous. It was a need. We tried to quench it at length, but for the first 30 weeks it was all consuming and exhaustive.
There were times we stayed in bed together all day. Knowing each other. Learning and leaking lust. Feeling excited, fresh and alive, we were drunk on our own desire and desire to fulfil. This was when we were closest. I knew only the person that she had allowed me to see, but I consumed each crumb and wanted more. It was difficult to see anything else or to let any other emotion elbow this infatuation out of the way. I became narrow-minded and blinkered. And it was growing. We saw each other more often, every day, still with a burning fuse and desperation to clutch and keep, to be with. There was a hole when we parted. In train stations and taxis and cafes. In rain-sodden clothes and squeaking shoes, at 4 in the morning. In reluctance and fear of it being the last time, I would leave her. Simply let her drift away.
I lived in a bubble. With only her in it. Everyone else was a trespasser. This happened sub-consciously. To let the infatuation ride over me, I had to let everything else go so it was able to swallow me whole and incorporate me. This is why I couldn't listen to advice. I wasn't rational, I was permanently drunk. Drunk with lust.


Each conical day
she stood at the tip
at the hype of the lust
pouring graffiti on my heart.

Drumbeats thrum in my fever-bowl brain
like a millionaire's fingers
spending my breaths, scarlet and blue
velvet on bone
yearning so
pressed with aches.




I scrubbed
in white foam
the skin off the bone
of her fragile veneer

she dipped
my lacerations
in the sneering salt
of the Autumn sea

we folded up
the other's muffled
yes yes yells
in desire-riddled quilts

thin breaths
we shared
of lust
in the secrecy of sand dunes
pouring
sex sweat
on our diminishing hopes.












Trepidation


He closed
an eye, the appreciative one
the left, too scared
to accept
kept watch
as he thought
I am but a second away.

He closed
a door, to enter his morning
each night, before
he cried
through a dream
in the silence
she was but a second away.

He closed
last chapters, without knowing
each day, may not open
but will crisp
like night before flowers
and remain
but a second away.


I closed chapters. Phases of my life sped up and zipped past me. Things happened in months, then in weeks, until we were having daily circuits of emotion. Up and down in hours. Counting seconds. This frustrated and scared me. The creeping vine of doubts, unemployed and fat,sprouted. Fed by swathing changes in moods and interaction,swigging trepidation, they thrived. I was a welcoming wall or fence; or stubborn oak.
I staged private little plays in my head, building scenarios whose outcomes made me happy. Convincing myself, led by convincing lies, that we we're the same. No, not the same; that we wanted the same. This was a cloak, as acceptance was too dangerous. I smothered it with a big, black velvet cloak of conviction. Plasticine worlds are easy to inhabit. I could maul and mutate, set what I needed to believe. Chop away at the vines, weeding every day and killing the doubt. This was exhausting. Such a mental and physical examination over crackling time, nearly broke me. I was stripped of a layer of skin, salted, reprieved in periods of manic joy, stripped and salted again. Cyclically.
This period of time threw the most challenging questions at me. I had to search for answers. Not magical, inspirational answers from God, but logical, life crashing decisions.
In time, Trepidation swung it's blackened, bloody sword and I split up with her.


Commitment

You’re not yet privy
to what you do to me
on sight
I haven’t said
as I can’t stop the words
ice to my tongue
stopping dead
before I paint them in your ears.

It’s not getting easier
more I see you
to beat these tiny mites
owners of my secret
who stitch up my lips
with thread
wrinkled and well used
and snigger at me.

This page holds no fear
or needles to sew
or levee my thoughts
which you might never read:
I tingle from brow
as if burnt body length
by an iron
just the front of me
a vulnerable layer
when I see you.



I had it in me. It took less than three months for me to realise this, and then it skittled me. It didn’t creep up on me. At first, I was free. Untethered, I enjoyed my life again. I was on holiday, sweaty and sleepless, lying wide-eyed and searching the dark. It was about 100 degrees with no air conditioning.I had a heat headache which I tried to subdue with Amstel beer and co-proxamol. Amazingly, this wasn’t working. Maybe it was a hangover headache instead. I had enormous questions following me around which I could neither answer or ignore. I’d suppressed them for months, unable to face them, and now after ten days of sleepless Cypriot nights, I was sure of my stance. I loved her. All other questions were worthless as I knew I would have to deal with them to have her love back. My enlightenment was powerfully reinforced by my inability to sleep. Every night I would flip and turn, open the window, close the curtains, sit on the balcony, fuck it, have a beer! So it went for the whole holiday, as John Lennon said ‘ what’s the use of waking / if you’re not there / to share the dreams and nightmares’.

It transpired, on my return, that I’d been quickly forgotten, and replaced. So we got back together and started again. Obviously! In another haze of passion. But passion with commitment. From me at least.


I shed a skin
like a coat-tail
lifted it over your head
hairs pressed to your cheek
in sweat
you gasped
seeing
I wanted to caramelise you
just for me.

I drew circles
in crayon
for you to leap from
and to
skip-hop
as a magpie
thinking you’re stealing
shiny love I donate.

I built tents
temporary forts
extraditing my logic
to moats
where you swam
in the wee hours
hot with whiskey
which I longed to taste.


Love


I love your cold bum
I love your deep sleep twitch
I love your sexy lips
your bloodymindedness
I love your truth
I love your fight
I love your never dampened spirit
I love your breath upon my neck
I love your strength
your independence
your acceptance
of me
I love your fun
I love your lack of fear
of embarassment
I love how you touch
other’s pains
I love your spiritual intuition
in honest eyes
your depth of love
I love our perfect fit in bed
your sassy sexiness
I tingle at your smell
or your kiss upon my skin.


So I gave up my heart. It took a lot to do. I’d had fleeting relationships before, usual teenage stuff, fireworks and flattery, but I’d never set my stall out like this. Nobody before her had the strength to grip my heart with both hands and wring it out like a dishcloth. And that was when we were apart.

I shaved my hair, bought a secondhand Cromby overcoat and an array of scarves from my local charity shop and lit 21 candles in the cathedral. It was an epiphany. There was a new direction for me, a purpose and intention. I had chosen one road and hit a dead end full of sleepless nights, but now there was a force
beyond my control to guide me. So I told her this and she fell.

We became inseparable again. Afternoons in the park, stabbed by refreshing Autumn rains. Eating chips from the paper and chasing our dreams. Like every other couple smothered in their own optimism, we planned jobs and money and houses and warmth and trust. I was a poor student and I bought her gifts that were cheap on the outside but the giving and receiving was so pleasurable they became expensive to us.


A Pink Panther key ring, sweet and sour chicken or 10 strawberry jelly sweets. Her eyes would light and we glowed together. It was the smallest things that I could make her happy with. It was perfect. It was hard, but perfect.

And so we melted together and love moulded us for months, shedding it’s magic dust daily, burying us in an unbreakable mound of happiness.

I couldn’t have given more. Every ounce of me, my energy and will and determination and scrunched up expectations I laid at her feet. And I hoped this was enough. I found out I couldn’t even scratch the surface.



You feel close
German roots climb in darkness seeking me
touching fresh ancient needs
they know I am near
birthland whispers of ‘74
drift from mini city circuit boards
my pulse twined and cable tied
burning up to yours
orange black clashes of excitement
your breast and eyes and lips


I can see you
small, unturned in cleanliness
one year old
searching for truth
in waiting pains of shark sharp whiteness
under stones
skimming years and splashing in your heart

I can reach you
one lung bust step across stitched clouds
a white rose and yellow lily in your hair
you lie in endless rows of lavender merged
with pure blue sky and California sun
heavy, blossomed with child
smiling in your eyes and soul
breathing up to me
I can kiss you
I can keep you.


Response


She never came home before midnight. It was usually after 4 am. There were always weird, complicated circumstances that kept her out. She wasn’t always drunk. She would often phone home and tell me she had no money to get home and she was stuck in the city centre. I paid for most of her taxis just to get her home safe. She slept in other people’s homes, never phoned to say where she was. She left me hanging at home, lonely, worried, agitated and angry. I would try to contact her, chasing her by phone. Ringing her mother or her sister or her friends in the early silent hours of the morning. Arguing with them, waking them, blaming them. I would listen to Radio 2, twitching the curtains at every sound in the road. Hoping it was her and that she was safe, worried she was dead. The worry would be swamped by anger and despair at being discarded once again. The children slept upstairs.

I had to open the back door to let her in once. It was nearly noon and she didn’t want to be seen coming up the road at that time of day in her clothes from the night before, her hair dishevelled, make-up cracked and stale, breath of a devil. I was stupid like that, always looking out for her more than myself. If I think of it now, she smelt of man. I found phone numbers in her clothes—Marcus: 554 4675. I quizzed her and we argued, she said it was just one of the taxi drivers who used to drink in her pub and why was I so suspicious. She would tell me she had done nothing wrong, that she was hurting nobody, not even our children. She reasoned that they were asleep when she was out, so what harm could it do them. She would sleep all next day though, on the couch, stinking of cigarettes and day old alcohol, still in her party clothes. No time for the family.

She was promoted to manager of a pub. I very rarely saw her from then on, even on weeknights. She would spend 16 or 17 hours there and the rest of the time when she was home, she would sleep. Her long weekend parties got longer. She had an even larger circle of friends, most of them men.

She wasted money, abused her body and my love, and made me cry a lot. I would write poems and letters to try and communicate the ache in my heart. Or to just get it out of me, release it so it didn’t choke me and kill me.

This became cyclic. We would have 2 or 3 days when we would get along, she would come home and we would try our best to function as a family. She would feel regret for staying out so late the last time. She would even apologise and promise not to do it again. Then she would do it again. Invariably, the next weekend but sometimes she didn’t even wait that long and wednesdays and thursdays were favourite nights too. I fell into the welcoming arms of despair once more.


The mirrors know more than me
you told me,
sometimes trembling
you talk to them unblemished
And they listen.


The mirrors are perfectly
receptive you said,
clean surfaced, unstained
no chinks in their armour
of understanding.


The mirrors are never too deep
or judicious
I thought, on reflection
I could not compete
in the shallowness stakes.


The mirrors don't spit in frustration
you whispered
across their silver backs
in exemplary sympathy
at the changing of the guards.


The mirrors don't love you
like I do
I said.






Despair

I had a big old heavy mahogany upright piano. It took 4 big men and 8 cans of Stella Artois to move it to my house from my parent’s. One of them dropped it on his foot. There were a few flat keys which I never got round to having fixed, but it could still hold a tune and I learnt to play It Ain’t Me Babe by Bob Dylan. I would stand in the dining room alone and play it. To her. About me. From me. Sometimes she would just be sitting in the living room, listening. Watching television. I played music and listened to radio in the dining room, she lay on the couch watching television. At other times she would be out and I still played it at her. A very apparent and increasing divide was occuring.
I loved the children and I loved her. And I hated her sometimes. It felt inevitable again that we would separate. There was very little happiness.

I ate pips of you
where they fell
a scrounging dog
in hope they’d grow
through warmer days, less vinegared
less starched I wished
for sandstorms smooth
to smother each’s brittle trepidation
or blow upon
and blunt the knives.

I sharpened mine on yours
and sucked the sand
to globulate small balls
for spitting on your soul
across our sterile no man’s land
this desert rose
uncrossable
and cultivated blind.

You shared your sparks
in trusted palms
in centrifugal eyes
in wondrous heart
with someone else
a shadow crept
just weeks along
replacing mine
that dripped
the echoes of your pips.


I functioned. Kept washing dishes, making kid’s lunches, ironing uniforms, changing the beds, but inside I was slipping away. In moments of solitude, something creeped up behind me. Something black and wrinkled, whispering sad words. Despair. I fretted at night. Worried of failure, separation again seemed to skip hand in hand with the black carcass of despair. Seemed to drag it across a hopscotch grid, to be the solution to lighten the fear.

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