Pressing, softly through the cracks Fragments of consciousness Piston hissing speckled the dead-night
Moving electricity aside She slips in like butter Melting and reforming to what I once knew
She was melancholy like my heart Sullen of soul My scion mirror
The tunnel formed Attuning the station Between pre and post mortem A hollow in this verse A meeting place
We spoke about mortality Not with words It was all there, though Moths fluttering in the air It’s been a while…
Since we shared space Since we shared time She keeps reminding me, though Those are figments...
Of faux comfort Fool’s restraints Flimsy, weak cortex It’s not everything Not even close
The cat’s body is in the next room Upon the pink bedspread His marbled fur of coppers and black Still as the void I can look if I want, she tells me He won’t stir yet But I can’t leave Paralysed in the serenity Permeating from her form
There’s so much more to that cat
The sun seeps in Glimmers strain against the sides Dagger sharp Fragments tear the space asunder
From this tomb I look at the massacre I’ve made of myself Taking in every ripple of depression The marches of its succession Binging and fasting like waves sloshing Overwhelming loose skin Drinking in the scars Grooves deeper than can be seen Slashes from the blade Tracks worn into this sick façade Embedded in the tomb For me, there’s no room Depressions refusal to be released Sagging waves of torment Dropping into the scalding water Reddening surface and silver deep Lie back Just lie back let it sink in Conquer the concave slave Drench black-eyed face under Revell in the nearing thunder I can see through my corpse to the decomposition My life’s mission Taking in their rot I’m rotting alive No need to be a giver They keep taking Clawing at the veins Sucking my blood with straws Lie back further Steer across the landscape It ain’t too horrifying from this angle The sags tighten Silver streaks lighten Red fades to blush Embrace the incoming hush I’ll lie here Lie to myself for a while Let the silver lining twinkle A perspective shift A momentary lift.
Just dropping by with a quick 2020 writing (or more subbing) wrap up since it seems to be the thing to do!
On my first year actively subbing and writing for specific calls, this has resulted in 58 pieces accepted for publication. 42 of these have been published this year – 8 Short Stories, 13 Flash Fiction, 20 Drabbles and 1 Poem. The remaining 16 accepts will be out in 2021.
I have been lucky to have my work appear alongside some cool folk from around this wee planet. Thankful and grateful for the opportunities and encouragement from my friends, family and writing community. Writing wise it’s been a pretty fun year — I’ve learned so much and developed some new skills along the way.
Gnashing and gnawing at my innards Viscera shredded; trauma tombs embedded Stitch in bells, weigh down the nauseating flapping Jangle a euphonious jingle Steady placement of chinked shield Conceal agonies.
U-bend blocked There my guilt brims Shame for wishing away rapid cell division Liquor and voluntary scalding Natures way away Life folding poured out Out of Order; terror of disorder
For two, a freshly dug hole The morning after Mourning follows Nipping at heals with the snow A hollow in another garden There, a piece of my heart lays A depression for my first’s succession
She wants to see my torment on display To harvest in morbid grief games Pretend she’s just the same Catfish loss-mother Conspiring tiring Yearning to reap from the suffering leaks of my soul Observe my lamentations trapped in a fishbowl To don a cape, be in control Prodding my wounds, infecting
Imitation empath storing stories Catalogued, indexed, held hostage Latching of grief vampires Sucking ephemeral life’s marrow Chipping stones off my bones
An archaeologist scraping the shovel No delicate brushing of bristles Attention desperation Desecrating my pain Self-appointed steward on my cradles grave.
Claustrophobic, locked in.
Mirrored headstones line the grey road.
Buried alive, suburban death-row.
‘Did you hear about so and so?’
Blurred race of parallel lines standing still.
Masking — one fanes will.
Mimic gimmicks with lacklustre flare.
Another unforgiving snare.
Teeth scraping bone.
Smile while blood flows soaking frozen toes.
A trend-setting bush, a coat of paint.
‘Oh, look together we’re dammed saints.’
The season of outdoing the clone next door.
Marching down the line of uninspired duplication — snore.
Locked down on cookie-cutter lane.
Painting beige with grey, painfully mundane.
Disgusted with one’s own disdain.
It really is insane.