And people don’t smile
at each other anymore
don’t chat
don’t smile
take Prozac instead.
Neighbours don’t neighbour,
we do it online now
no communities anymore
even
the shopping’s delivered
by strangers in vans.
I need to change my
status
in these demanding times-
Instead I bring my hands together
In thoughts of you
and feel the
pull.
And everything’s wrong
that makes it work,
from the high heel shoes,
to the short length
skirt.
From the gloomy
disposition, to the enigmatic
smile, to the possible and maybe's
to the “see you in a
while”
Every thing is stupid -
everything is sweet,
from the lilting of her
perfume,
to the painting of her
feet.
And everything is wrong
‘Cos everything is right
in the kissing of her smile
to the ending of our
night.
Of course - she lies with me
in my arms, her head to
my chest I can feel her
breath so gentle against my skin.
Of course - she walks with me
by my side, her head inclined,
to my shoulder, her hips kissing
mine with the rhythm of our
steps.
Of course - we live together
share our lives, the washing
up. We walk the dog, wash
the car. Make our bed.
Of course – we make love,
her warm silky skin,
the catching of her breath,
the wonder in her eyes.
Of course-
Of course-
Of course.
Alabaster or Marble she
sculptures her look
resolved
to push through another day.
An armoury for survival a
perfected
indifference, a strained resistance,
she looks the other way.
I guess I kinda love her
In an impossible way
In a fanciful way
In a whimsical way
I guess I kinda love her.
I guess I kinda want her
In a curious way
In a mysterious way
In some kinky kinda way
I guess I kinda want her.
I guess I kinda need her
In a selfish kinda way
In a greedy kinda way
in a needy kinda way
I guess I kinda need her.
She would have been twenty eight
today.
I felt some guilt at the overgrown
grave, the weeds and long grass.
Already someone else has laid a small
bouquet.
I get the tools from the car
and trim and cut in the still
summer silence.
I arrange the flowers as best I can
asking her to help me, she knows
what I’m like. I place the soft toy between
the two bouquets, hazarding at symmetry.
Only ten when we lost her.
Standing back at last the work all done
I wait for some sort of spiritual message.
Nothing.
I look for some sign in the clouds,
maybe a rustle in the trees.
Nothing.
Nothing.
On the drive back I remember
as I stood on her grave cutting
grass, pulling weeds:
“Hurry up Dad, you weigh a ton!”
and the flicking of her hair out of her
eyes, head thrown back
that cheeky mischievous grin
and realise she was with me all the time.
Her heart is like a room full of roses
that fall apart
like dry white wounds;
her heart is like a garden full of wounds
that know that pain
needs them and aches for them.
From 'Violence'
