Condensation

the moon is cold on my fingertips

like an icy bathroom

when the steam shower is turned off 

and all that’s left are

chubby clouds of condensation

floating

finding mirrors to cover

in a silk veil of frost.

 

the moon is cold on my fingertips,

as I touch the window between us,

letting my blood-heat

warm the glass

until clammy.

 

a lick from the air,

a rain drop from no-where.

Crumbs

you make me fat

and sick

lovely and round.

Press a finger

into my leg to watch it melt

inwards.

Filling a hollow,

wobbling,

ignoring the stop sign

until you are dust

in my belly.

I lick my chops

before a search for more

begins.

Alarm

I should be up that tree

saving a cat

reaching for fur with stretched fingers

rough bark

marking early skin

 

instead of standing still

watching the next hero

sail through mid-morning air

hot kitten

held tight in victory fists

 

showing off

what you could be if,

just once,

you got up early.

Morning

Tomorrow everything will begin again

duvets will give birth

forehead first,

skin daisy-print fresh,

 

to a day wiped clean

like a mother pushing a damp cloth

around a sticky child’s cheeks.

 

The dotted stars

promise purity is near

and with a breath

 

we are crowned by flames

that paint a fresh aura

around each blade of grass

 

sliding softly in it’s sky arc

pulling away savoured minutes

from weary arms.

 

But now dark bathes eyelids

with whispers of what is to come

carried on night’s heavy breath.

 

Tomorrow, everything will begin again.

Homesick

Living and coping

sail hand in hand

across a heavy street

pulling me

by the hook

sunk deeply

into a fleshy cheek.

 

My scales grate

over pavement slabs

slapping each corner

in a frenzy

of minutes lost,

 

and I wonder will I ever

make it back home.

Tidings

The sea wind drowns out their shouts quickly.

The waves crash around my ears and soon I forget that they had even been screaming at me.

They had been shouting “what are you doing?” which is a stupid question, really. I thought it was obvious when

I stood up,

walked straight into the ocean

and started swimming towards the horizon with all my might

that I was swimming away from them.

Did they really expect me to turn around and explain it to them?

Explain that it is all their fault?

Well it is too late now, they are tiny dots, little blurs on the sand, feet crashing into the waves as they throw their arms in the air, empting lungs into the wind.

That’s what I would see if I could turn around, but I can’t. I need to keep going forwards.

Kick, kick, kick.

Kick them all away.

Seesaw

I saw them.

They didn’t see me but, I saw them. I saw them in all their glory.

My stomach dropped to the ground like a body thrown from a moving car. I wanted to rip out my hair, all in one big tug, and then I wanted to rip out all of their hair. And their skin, and eyes.

I couldn’t look away.

It was as if I thought if I kept looking at them, staring, on the corner of the street, that the picture would change and everything would suddenly click back to normal. They would mould into different people and I wouldn’t have a voice screaming inside my head, pumping boiling blood to my ears.

But the picture never changed. It was them, I could see them. And I would never un-see them.