collision

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

sitting at a table in an underground station café –
sitting, surrounded by people –
sitting, listening to snatched conversations –

hearing little, understanding even less,
seeing, through the fog of sleep deprivation
(each image strangely clear),
and
feeling— feeling— feeling —
the vibrations
as the train rumbles overhead

and then —

the jolt of a child’s pram as it
knocks against your thigh
the touch of the mother’s hand on your shoulder
(so tactile, oh so human!)
the murmured mumble of an apology
the cooed coaxing to the errant offspring

something along the lines of let’s go dear
something along the lines of don’t bother the nice lady writing
something along the lines of don’t snatch her pen—stop that!—be polite!!
something along the lines of listen! if you’re still you can hear the train

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

the whimper inside you that meets
the unmet desires of this child
who
muscling her way out of the pram and onto your lap and
grabbing your notebook and grabbing your pen and
sweeping aside your cup and
(there go £2.50 worth of aromatic pure-blended imported but don’t worry fair-trade carbon neutral and guaranteed to encourage serendipitous encounters brew-hah-hah
hah)
looking up into your face
and down at the mess on the floor —
waves your morning’s work energetically
smiles slyly and

lets
it
drop

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

the sounds inside you move like overly-enthusiastic bowels

on the floor, you watch
the lined, ink-covered pages brown
and shape themselves wetly
over the broken china
(whose shattering has attracted notice from – would you believe it? – no one)
and the destructress, fait accompli, smiles wider, chuckles loudly, waves her arms proudly and
scrambles down

at the level of a scream —
at the level of a howl

your regret at seeing her go
sits, expecting little, awaiting even less—

surrounded by the
clang of crockery
and the subtle sound of
passing trains

approaching

I. dialogue.
you say clarity is a space, perhaps.
or a state.

or maybe it's what you felt today- remember what you told me?


it brushed up against you
momentarily. you turned, and
it had already gone.


II. audience.
ah, but wait. listen. listen.

i said: listen.

i got it! come closer, and we'll wait for her together.

here she is,
clarity.

III. imagination.

(i think i see it - her? it? her? i think i can imagine. i think...)


III. recognition.
clarity is a sentence that stands on its own -
warrants nothing but a nod - and provides a


flash - illumination -

which we briefly (stupendously!)seize, in one hand, while reaching,
with the other, towards the

uncertain next.

IV. sacrifice.
now. let her escape: let her escape, and watch.

the light dances, slips ahead and looks
ever dimmer.


V. quiessence.
it is that glimmer
(and that it is there, and not here)

that propels us forward.

without it, we would have no reason to read
the next line.

The end.

i knew you’d turn away.
i knew your face would end up nesting in my armpit.
i knew it’d be me watching the credits roll, and you, sobbing dry tears, saying
tell me: tell me this time, no one died.

ssshhhhh....

I.
She tells me pain is like a fretful child - it only wants to be heard
it only wants to be held

here: you try.

and i, phone clenched
prepare to withstand its whimper
while her words course through me
the air swimming round and round the room

ears stiff, i wait.

a churning motion distant - a screaming silence strident

shhh, shhh. i am here. i am here. look, my arms outstretched. look, my nerves poised.
look. look: i am here.

it squirms in its sleep, then settles. the mattress sinks under its weight.

II.
gently i set the phone back in its cradle.

looking up at a ceiling of echoes, i
imagine what i might offer

a landscape of such high-pitched pangs
but subtle trepidations on calm clear waters
disquiet floundering, unchecked uncounted
imperceptible, my impressions would be

and lost, so lost

amid urns of sorrow never never endings unscattered ashes unmourned beginnings

from this dolorous deluge - what hand could emerge?

ah, but i am here. see? see? i am here!
and while Atlas shrugs off the earth
my embrace will salvage the tides

straight against the light i cross

i'm going to read o'hara
until i, too, start spouting manifestos

until my skin goes immaculate
and i start to look like those girls
who went to college for an mrs
then got seduced by words

or by men with glasses with thick plastic frames
and professors who called them dollface and
made them want to take dictation

until my sense of humour
goes all masculine and dry
my gait all new york cool

or until my character gets smothered backstage
during an impromptu reading
her cries drowned out by the applause

verses in english - in a closed room, wailing

i. no sound

Silence is what happens when not a whisper
passes your lips:

they're parted but only breath goes
in and
out

the air is still as if
someone switched off the wind

the trees wait,
branches clenched,
for what is sure to come.

But nothing comes.

no sound no noise no stirring motion
no sweet nothings murmurred in someone's eager ear

in the cardiac ward
a man's chest heaves heavily but
it's quiet, his hold on life

the volume on the baby's wail has been
turned down low:

one day
when he's all grown up
he'll close his mouth when screaming.

silence is what happens when you press
mute on the remote:

then watch the actors move their mouths
like guppies, out of water,

struggling for air.


ii. memory
i want to write something beautiful, today:
i want to capture Florence
in a line, maybe two

then take her home with me
and re-read her
when the English sky speaks only in grey.

the sun: the hot sun—
i want to imprint it on the page

when i open this notebook
it'll blind my eyes... and I'll see only

Florence, Florence: always and forever,
Florence

in a dark room, quietly,
i'll move myself to tears

feeling nothing but the ache
of feet battered by cobblestone streets

seeing everything:
lampposts churches bridges people

so many people -
so many people in Florence:

tourists artists writers explorers
and the Florentines... i always forget the Florentines

here i am, ready to write something beautiful -
with just a hint of a tuscan accent

to allow me to re-fresh my palate
when english will have engulfed
my senses once more.


iii. untitled
I am the inaccessible vag.

Legs spread wide

At my desk – on the tube – on my bicycle when I’m
Feeling green and
Political

But encased I’ll still remain

Seven years ago my then-boyfriend
Made me wet in the pub
Stuck his finger up me and wriggled

I sat – I shuddered –
What a woman I was, in my
High-heel boots

What a woman I will be
When the cellophane

Finally comes off

The meat of my clit
Shiny

and new.

shit-hot

intellectualise?
man, i can't even think.

chest heaving, face hot
hands frozen over the keyboard -
throat closed -

language blocked

the only expressions I can find are
purely physiological

‘he makes me piss myself laughing... he makes my
legs go
like jelly –

you know my pussy's never been so wet?
mm hmm, mm hmm -
fuck me, it was hard’

and so over the sound of
sharp incredulous breaths

(a reluctant audience that doesn’t want to know)

I find myself, dirtied,
chest heaving - shit-hot - smutty-fingered - foul-mouthed

spewing filth over the keyboard
like a born-again whore