Progress is a funny thing. You can be making much less of it than you necessarily know. Not that you should castigate yourself for something as ethereal as the cloud formations of the soul. Winds blow their way across the globe whether you feel them or not. And the weather: the passenger, the sometimes driver, moves droplet from ocean to mountain and sound from hill to stream, whether you feel it, hear it, smell it, it moves it all the same. Blame yourself no more than Cornwall blames itself for the rain, or the Cairngorms for the snow.
Regress has no humour. It is a steady bureaucrat clearing its in-tray. Avoidance is simple: send it no post; lose its address; blank-it in the corridor. Yes, maybe one day you will need its service, so don’t be an enemy, but don’t be its acquaintance and never be its friend.
spent a month by the dockers and the Saints,
then lusted after pricey trainers in the Lanes.
Came home to the old place but no old friends,
felt old new pains start again.
Lost hope and grip and chance and love and self respect.
Pressed stop, ejected, then tore up the tape.
Bottomed-out, took baby steps and left the nest.
With prickly nerves, I lived a foot above my head.
Met people kind enough to take me as I was,
though geeks discern none – they see with no ‘because’.
My jump was higher than I honestly believed,
but I still spent a month sure I’d been deceived.
Got paid and found that nothing really ever changed.
Nearly lost the reigns and put on loads of weight.
Found myself and cried and gave the boy a hug.
Looked for reason, found a song, fell back in love.
Now I’m looking round but ought to look ahead,
’cause Google thinks it’s forty years until I’m dead.
over the garage,
And my washing's out,
memory foam's aired,
and I want to join my cat so bad.
And my other cat
found a bee hive
and won't let it be
but it's not funny
It's been so hot
though it's early May.
Smoking baby blue,
delicate veins of green,
and purple hangs down from above.
The motion of bees,
spasmodic wooden slaps,
and birds calling one and other out.
Acrid, day-old, oil smoke,
in my hair or t-shirt,
rum stuck up my nose,
and alone I was king
where my everything spun as one,
and I want it
but I lost it
when you came back.
But I love you.
Hanging from a hook
under my heart;
a goldfish in a bag
from a fairground in my teens.
If always it was there,
and since then I learned its words,
or it grew in response,
I don't know.
It makes no difference
that hormones settled.
It pays no mind
to victories since.
I sit here
and its tail flutters,
uncoded in my blueprints:
the miracle balance
of bone and muscle.
She tells me it's a construct
of wayward associations
but my truth
is my life
and I'm here
because I lived it.
So take my truth
and take my past
and leave a child.
And I'd love to loosen
but the handrail
I've warmed so nicely.
And I guess that it's true
what they say
But I'm not living enough for one
and my orange friend makes two.
So he flutters;
and my world shakes.