There are no apples left for picking, only leaves caught up in the sunlight and a slow breeze passing through. Back between my molars sticks a pip that my tongue cannot pry loose no matter the shapes it twists, the times it risks my bite. A sparrow in the branches sings, tells me there are more trees, more apples, but they are behind walls, and gates, and men with bright black guns. They tell people which trees are good, which ones are bad. It doesn’t matter about the apples so much, it’s more about the hands.
Tonight beasts broke loose and rose up roaring, their bright comet backs bleeding light from spectating stars trembling between each other, thankful for the distance. Close at hand we drew curtains, played peekaboo with things we’d thought buried. Only real if we see them.
She call them lollygagger, adjusted the folds of her scarf, let them watch her fingers trace the sweep of her collarbone like a wink but not an invitation. Clutched at the other hand with smaller, damp digits unsure eyes flickered from her to the jackal-backed boys circling their cigarettes, tongues dragging across their teeth. Nothing to be afraid of dear.
How even when we whispered it there was someone shushing our small mouths with calloused fingers. Pressing the words back inside as if they were Ouranos horror struck but what we birthed in those terrible, unspeakable words. Filling our bellies with ideas we were not allowed to give life to. Until we burst from the ineffable and held it screaming before their faces. Made them look at what we’d made.
I pretended not to hate you last night, knees pressed into your pelvis like stone fists, your cold, clever lips there against my wrist with promises you would make things alright once the morning at last brought home some light and you could show me why we must persist, how without you, I would barely exist, and why it was pointless for me to fight. But I kept count of those lies and those kisses. every feathered touch up, along my ire, and each time I should have taken your tongue when your arrogance stoked up this fire and told me I did not have strength to rise when you were the one crawling all along. Bjorn is hosting the first Poetry Form night of at the DVerse Poets Pub and he’s picked an old fling to throw up as the first challenge. While I played with sonnets years ago, I went off them in the same way I went off most fixed form poetry. However, anyone who’s been around this blog for the last …
He called her The Office Bitch, to her face. Drops the comment like a hot coal before she climbs into a taxi home and I turn my car keys over in my hand, heels sharp on the concrete, the elastic in my shoulders twisting tighter as the words sink in. I can’t help but repeat it, turn the words over in my mouth the needles of the teeth still there, as I wonder if he’d of said the same were she a man. Would she have had to swallow it, if she were a man. Because at worst he would have been a bastard. Not The Office One. I wanted to add another stanza to this but nothing seemed to work so I’m going to sleep on it any maybe come back to this piece another day. In the meantime I’m relatively happy with how it works at the moment. I’d love to hear your feedback though.
Uncompromising does not mean unbreakable. Even the strongest machine has its fragile components. When they falter or buckle beneath pressure the whole thing will grind to a halt, until someone can come and sift through the metal, down to the root of the problem. But us, we cannot wait. There are too many mountains to climb for us to wait for our broken parts to be repaired by other people’s hands. Instead we have to carry them with us or learn the best way to tape ourselves together so that we hold just long enough to make it to the other side or past that ceiling that keeps the sun from coming in and us from breaking out. Uncompromising does not mean unbreakable, it means we will put ourselves back together, return to our feet and carry on forward no matter how many times we are shattered or forced to the ground. It means that though you may not be listening, we will certainly be heard. Daily Post: Uncompromising
I don’t mind if you wolf-whistle across the street, my insecurities won’t believe you’re looking at me anyway. If you tell me I’m pretty the worst I’ll do is blush and smile because I don’t count flirting as an offence and I know that you’re mostly likely looking past me to the blonde I walked in with. The other day I changed twice before work, not because I did not like the outfit or I felt it was not flattering enough but for the stretch of skin from mid-thigh to knee that I have loved since fourteen suddenly striking fear into me. It takes one conversation to reduce a woman to the worth of her shape. I learnt that during an informal meeting where my supervisor passed on words she did not believe herself and told me not to worry too much about it, just to wear darker tights next time so people were less likely to notice. At nineteen I sat in McDonalds in Bath after a poetry evening in the …