Daisy 

Vivian

Weird Bald William (Music)

and Badass Daisy (Marijuana) 

Ambitiously I claim to empathise with the moth
and its staggering honesty-concentrated,
pesky, wrapped
in fateful little smotherings.
The heat of panic and ice of fear
abrade away every stability
and sunlight strips in the backseat,
shadows stretch
until only the hardest husk of remains,
twilit, gripping the bedclothes.
Reluctant, reluctant.
Love refuses to change hands.

Adoration is unraveling
      strand
           by
   strand.
A thousand threads until yesterday
                is unraveling
           and history is unraveling.
Loose ends are countless when
          twine in lifelines
      is all becoming
        unwoven
down to its lonely strings. Lifelines,
               greyed,
      frayed,
           pale grey blankets,
                                  shy normality,
                    dust and icicles,
quiet distances
     and used faces of old fortresses
                    built from teeth,
                mouth-caverns and sockets
    crumple gristle and rust
                          onto bone,

    Fossilized skeleton structures.
          Fossilised feelings.

Sign language describing university, work and people I know

myself in metaphor

In my writing I have always and the tendency to either wilt in weakening into the comfort of using a metaphor that means something, or an image that has been glued the outskirts of my thoughts for a while and is ready t be written out into something shared by more than one figment of imagination, or the tendency to leap whole-heartedly into rhetoric and rhythm when writing. I can't remember and I'm sure it varies between poems or pieces of writing but one thing I do know is that I have a long history of likening myself to strange objects, feelings, concepts, and trying to get across in the poem the strange way I have been feeling and can't quite explain in words but am trying to weave into something comprehensible by finding a right way to communicate it all in written word form- by comparing myself to things that are more familiar to them than are my alien states of mind and mood- (and more familiar to me) in order to explain myself in familiar terms so I don't feel so estranged. 

The typewritten writing below includes a few of the many things I have likened myself to in past poems. How I have written myself in metaphor. I have been teeth and I have been the pieces that the tear things to. I have been irrelevant things made relevant for being in the wrong places or wrong arrangements. I have been the container and the contained. 

collaboration station

Two heads prove to be better than one. Small poem, a collaboration between myself and Stephen {click}

opiate bubble

I wrote some nonsense to a friend the other night and he said ought to go on here so I worked it into something. I hope it lived up to expectations of its usage. 

Opiate balloon and blanket bliss, floating in a bubble on a high
pitch black sky, and from here I am
counting city lights. Why
do our chests ache like some placid ballad?
Why is it the corners of our mouths
instead of bedsheets, these days,
that we pin up?

Today is close to being a chronicle
of yesterdays, not all, but almost .
I cut the wire that makes me spin up
from my ankles as I travel
so when the music box opens
all the lights drop,
extinguished and I unravel

doing a copper-footed dance to the sounds
of pennies dropping and spinning their final rounds.

Things I have inherited

I. My grandmother's urge to put my foot in it playfully, but with a mind far more floundering, mine always blunders into the wrong place.

II. Her nostalgia, the cabinet of treasured memories carried around all the time, getting heavier with time but never let go of to lighten the load. Unlike her, I haven't yet found the words for mine. If I did I would also habitually repeat the same anecdotes.

III. My grandfather's ability to drive everyone into a frenzy but without real reason. Except he could be excused for being senile. I'm just trouble.

IV. My aunt's everlasting and unshakable state of adolescence and love of colourful oddities.

V. My mother's adherence to etiquette and belief in the importance of politeness in manners of speaking and proper greeting. But although I say, 'How do you do?' with a firm handshake, know the origin of the word 'posh' and loathe rudeness, when I am not painstakingly careful to arrive early lest I risk being late, I am entirely absent and unconscious, pills dissolving on my to-whom-it-may-concern-sir-esquire-madam-please-thankyou-ever-so-kind tongue. When I am anxious my elbows are on the table and everywhere else and I spill and when I chew it's all wrong because it's a dinner table.

VI. My mother’s mischief- she outgrew it and forgot it.

VII. My father’s mischief- blatant self-destructive misbehaviour.

VIII. My father's nose- his would be ruined and twice rebuilt, mine remains perfectly intact.

IX. My father's obsessive nature.

X. My father's roller-coaster mind, and impulse to at once press the button to blow it all up.

XI. My mother's hatred of boredom and stupidity.

Haikus

Scattered, skittish stars

where sleep's canvas once displayed

dreams to wake up for.

Forgive snapping sounds.

Those wishbones I pocketed.

With each breath, one breaks

more signing practice

"My favourite sign is 'gold'" 

a nonsensical (to all but me maybe) poem that makes sense of things

I wrote this mostly from a cut-up but like Kerouac said, it finds its own form. First real 'beat' poem? 


All these moments, however whatever,
however cracked, however discarded
settle at the bottom of my lungs,
in the silt of all unspeakables.

I'm coughing soil, everything is dirt-
dirt on my shoes from not watching my step,
dirt on my name, and in my memory.

Dirt on my hands from trying to bury it.
My mouth is filled with it.

I find roots in my throat, crawling growths
up the piping of my oesophagus,
and when I breathe it's

which is to say, silence /
taciturn(cowardice)stoicism(grief) /

Any way it does it, it will do it.
That which is given no voice will manifest

there- in the mist of a car window where
I'll draw a flower with my fingertip
dipping into the fog to feel clean, a touch,
at the end of autumn. At the end.
The end to the heart of me, I feel it most
in my fingers

(whatdidyoutouchwhatdidItouch
whattouchedeadtoucheswhatdididodidit)

it will be tucked between them too
and fluttering in silence, plucking
the tendons of my hands, making them twitch
and make their own fists.

It will gather in the pockets of my coats,
not weighing enough to notice
but still felt there
like a receipt from a long-ago pharmacy stop,
crushed into a ball, or a phone number
written on a crumpled slip
of paper, never dialed.

It never died, this past world of paper
tracing over today moment to moment
was ripped out of the past.
What happened to the future at my fingertips?

They said it would be there, where it aches
at the point my pen bites blisters into
the nervous hand
that holds it. The dirty hands
from digging graves for secrets,
The bloody hands for the not-me-forgets

signing practice (don't laugh)

Why?

Because I don't know the whole truth yet and perhaps never will
and I'm too obvious to pretend that I do so it would seem
I know nothing at all.

Because when people are watching I immediately regret
opening my mouth the moment I begin to speak
as everything I say feels stupid.

Because everything I say sounds stupid, with words scrambling
in stutters over one another, rushing to get out
so I can shut up for all our sakes.

Because I am so afraid of being an intrusion or obstacle
that my talk is so quiet, I make people worry that they are going deaf
(incomprehensible)

Because my eyes see self from outside and in mirrors
and from what I see I only hope that mirrors and eyes tell lies
(eyesore)

Because I can't read that Adrien Henri poem without crying.
Because I can't listen to that Dire Straits song without crying.
Because I can't think of Ella without wanting, just a little, to die.
Because I can't think of the future now that Ella is dead.
Because I can't breathe after writing those words.

Because of the word I can't say, which makes me think
I may keep on having these nightmares until the day I can and do.

Because of the person who saw me flinch at the word
and repeated it over, close in my face, just so I would break
but even after that I can't turn my back.
Because I want to believe there is good there, even in the worst,
and because I saw so much sadness there, I can't let it lie,
and because I want to prove those who give warnings wrong
and prove myself right and believe that people just need someone to listen
to their yelling and their hurting out loud, because there is good there.
Because I am not going to stop hoping.
Because I am too stubborn.

Because I'll never be as brave as I was at 9.
Because I'll never be as well-liked as I was at 12.
Because I'll never be as unmarred as I was at 16.
Because I'll never be anything like I was before I was 17.
Because I am struggling to grow up better.

Because- well, do you know the difference
between soft and suffocating?
Because I don't. Even seeing the discrepancy in retrospect
doesn't teach me how to tell between the feel of the two.

Because I can't tell stars from ashes anymore
and I can't tell a thing from faces
and I can't tell you I'm trying my best because I can't lie
because I can't tell you what happened because of words
because I can't stop my hands from shaking because of time.

Because- don't leave me behind.
Don't forget about me.
Don't forget about me.
Don't replace me.
Don't hold this against me.
(Don't ever say those things aloud- because mother taught me).

Because I am still young.
Because I still have time.
Because I still have chances.
Because I am still young.
Because I still have time.
Because I still have chances.
Because those words don't feel as true as they used to.

starts at i, misses vii,, ends at x

i. Wish, wish, wish
on birthdays,
on bones,
and then wait.

ii. Today I bought a blue bow for my hair,
and played a silent discourse orchestra
between my hands
and the tips of my fingers

.iii. Later, constellations gathered on my cheeks
and I haven't run into why
or fallen into why yet; I just
made punctures
and let pour from them into pillows

iv.  drop, splash

v. Mouth waits for a kiss, scrubbed into a shell
that is weary from holding onto words,
so many words.
Inside, they make up an ocean that laps
quiet at the shores of my jaws.

vi. Someone once told me that death is just a harbour
and we are all floating. With death on my tongue
so tastelessly, the boats that moored here
are all cracked,
as bitten lips,
the watered-down sips,
unspoken sound waves.

viii. Wish, wish, wish once in a blue moon,
wish on the honey dripping from your spoon,
wish on the salt, over shoulder, left-side strewn
wish on the warranty of seeing you again soon.

ix. I missed out stanza seven on purpose.

x. This line is to balance and complete.
Ironic how what crosses other things out
turns out to be what people see
as sets of signals- where to look
to make a search for hidden treasure a lot better,
and where to look to find
a kiss hidden near the end of a love letter.

I am so very sorry for the war I declared on my body
and I am also sorry it is one you will never win.

War that comes to mind is loud as landmine explosions,
amputations, the roar of rubble and gunfire
that rattles bones, chainmail, armor made steel or khaki.
Nothing left but a burning canvas satchel
and his shoelaces. I was taught that war could deafen.

War can also be quiet. Quiet as something stillborn.
Quiet as the small weak growl of stomach
begging for food, as hands slipping apart, a lost grip.
Quiet as a gas leak.

Ner-Q-uda

Yesterday, yesterday I asked my eyes
when will we see each other again?

How did the abandoned bicycle
win its freedom?

Why do clouds cry so much,
growing happier and happier?

- Pablo Neruda from 'The Book of Questions'

My own questions, I'd like to add:

\Why do birds sing instead
of laughing or crying?

What are raindrops afraid of when they tremble
clinging to twine?

How did the skyline
lose so many of its teeth?

Where do we put our unwanted features

my 'sign name'

  'My name is Daisy' 

lots and lots of imagery, imaginary sanctuary

It's August now and I'm anchored to the ocean bed
(sad, sad violins tangled in seaweed
and there are half-smoked spliffs in the sand
and the sand is ashes, you are standing 
knee-deep in it)
after swallowing the heaviest truth,
one of those little pearls-of-whatever
(wisdom?) kept in a glass jar in the dusty attic of mind
until they could perhaps later be threaded into
(wisdom) accessories,
that I didn't anticipate would choke me
only partially, until most of my breath had been lost
somewhere in the folds of a pillow from nights ago
(where all the screams go, even those
that never know sound and settle
in the blank spaces between my fingers, 
going stale, going septic)
and definitely did not expect would surpass
the cyclical run-through,
rake-through,
right through the r word I can't say.
It's August now and it's been seven years.
Seven years good luck and bad.
It was silly superstition to expect a time to be set.
This is a timeless job, I know that now.
It's not a cycle, because it hasn't been the same.
It's August and it's like Groundhog Day
because I'm not forward, I'm back, and not a step
or two, but there are no steps.
(I've fallen. It was only a matter of time.
I tried to yell before but you never heard a sound.
Maybe I never made one. Maybe I won't 
when I hit the ground. 
Listen, 
this time, now that one's done
and someone please help her,
the next one.) 

A man outside my living room window is trying to fix his car.

I can see him through the half-open blinds

(do not think he can see me)

and he is ageing, bearded, flustered, pensive.

The bonnet of his red car is pushed up, a nearby garage door

left open. The slams of things and rumbles of faults

in the engine are muted, as all my windows are closed.

(There have been people out there at night,

wandering around and peering in- 

so the neighbours say, confirming my suspicions). 

In here, my ironing board is folded out

and used as a desk, the floor is scattered 

with oil pastels, and two pink lady apples shine

from the folds of my canvas book bag.  

The man outside now stands at the bonnet, looking in,

scratching the back f his neck. He put his hands in his pockets

and drops his chin to his chest, retreats into the garage,

disappearing eventually into dark. I am alone again.

the art of ripping out pages
the art of correcting mistakes
the art of snipping flowers at their stems
the art of cutting balloons at their strings
the art of tearing envelopes open & broken
the art of feast and reject
the art of indifference-

I have been an artist, a jack of all trades,
but now neither jack nor master of one.
I am stacking old canvases and washing brushes,
and I am so totally, entirely sorry
        I am artlessly sorry,
(I did manage to master the art of apology
but it's not something praiseworthy, done artfully,
and besides, now I think it is the master of me).