Hubba Bubba

Hubba Bubba

Her mouth always overly full of
something cloying or illicit:
blue clods of Hubba Bubba
and sneaked fags.

Not the regulation school jumper:
lighter, brighter, almost pink.
Sheer black tights,
ladders dabbed with nail varnish,
while my Mum made me wear
virgin socks and skirts at
just the wrong length for
my shameful dimply knees.
Sensible shoes.

She would be two paces
back from me. Close enough
to smell the sugar and cigarettes.
Close enough to hear
the wet clagging of gum
slurping round her braces.
And her permanent sniff.

“Tree trunks… fat… ugly…”
She knew exactly where to bite.
Every day, every single day.

The worst times she had a friend with her.
A girl like her – spiral perm and Impulse.
(I wasn’t allowed a perm.)
Their heads bent together,
swinging their bags, giggling,
sharing the joke.

Burn

Burn

It is a black, red and purple feeling,
pulsing in the fists, tense in the muscles,
an arterial bleed from the tongue

splattering the walls with hot, corrosive
anger, spitting out like miniature explosive
match-flames of bile. Singeing fringes and
searing off moustaches of anyone nearby.

Surprise! It’s flammable! They never knew.
And now the gore and the bile and the
blood-spitting tongue burns and the pulsing
fists fan the flames.

Web

Web

Her web binds him in tight,
winds him close with sticky
need. He wonders how it
doesn’t stick to The Other One.

He rolls in closer, closer,
pulling himself in tighter still,
comforted by the ties to her,
drinking her tears for The Other One.

He tries to curl round the
quivering shell of her ache.
Always she is weaving, spinning,
always towards The Other One.

Nearer and nearer she edges,
dragging him, used, in her wake,
‘cause he knows she can trust him
much more than The Other One,

who doesn’t want her twisting
and twining, doesn’t see the art
she sacrifices. It chokes him,
her wasting it on The Other One.

He clings unwanted in the tangling
ropes – cruelly she keeps him
hanging. She could always have him.
She couldn’t have The Other One.

Soon she will be weakened, tired,
while he lies rested in her silken bed.
Soon she will be worn out, needy again.
He will lay her down with him, loving
her best vulnerable and wrecked like this,
wrapping her up, binding her tight,
sticky and close. Tied in the soft sleek strands.
Tied in her life’s work.

Hard Face

Hard Face

She was beautiful once, but never knew:
no one had ever told her.
Or no one who didn’t want something.
So kindness curdled
in her eyes.

She would tongue anyone who
gave her drink or sniffings.
Give them feel or fumble.
Gave much with her own hand,
worth two in her bush, etc, etc.

She was too clever to be so stupid
but self-doubt eats brain cells
via the heart.
Her smile is now only
warm like vomit.

Too young
she learned bad stuff, enough
to lose trust, to never cry
in front of people, to never let
a man see her without makeup
or with leg hair.

And still she is scared:
women judge her, nudge
and whisper, hissy giggling.
She knows she can take them all
if she needs to, with a slash of nails
and an acid spat slap.

She is strong now.
She knows her superpower,
her costume sheer, slinky,
yet still razor-clawed.
For protection.

Who is she? Who is she?
She does not stop to think on that.

Bath

Bath

Lying back, bubbles long gone,
drowsing in the steamy half-light,
tuning out the bad day.
The late trains, crammed with
identikit grey zombie commuters.
Knowing she is just as grey
and dead. Sleep-walking
through the corporate beige
every day, after day, after day.
Feeling the colour drain
from her veins with every keystroke.
Every synthetic coffee,
plastic cup, scalded fingers.
A numbing placebo excuse
she makes for inertia.

But now home.
The water running soothes her.
The pouring in of sweet-smelling
potions and swooshing them
into Flake advert abundance.
Kettle boiled, comfort
of this nightly ritual and
the simple pleasure of
a decent cup of tea.
Lighting a candle.
Sinking in, letting the warmth
hold her close, slow her blood.
Hypnosis of water, scent
fogging her world to a separate
semi-dream, smoothing
edges with condensation.

Drifting, drifting.
Counting the bubbles popping
‘til they are all gone, gone.
Blink around the room.

Tidemark, soap scum,
laid out body, tired, limp,
distorted in cooling water.
Mould round the bath seal.
Cracks in the ceiling and
a stain shaped like a toad.
The seeping leak from the sink,
carpet gone a bit mouldy there.
Worn out old towels,
scuffy and scruffy.
Better to close her eyes a while.
Toe rammed in the dripping tap.

Wrinkling fingers, sea creatures.
Hair swirling dark, choking weeds
tangling, tempting to the depths.
Ophelia and the Lady of Shallott.

Head sliding sleepy.
Ears immersed, whale noises
and calm. Woosh and echo.
Boom of elbow on side.
Then further, further down.
Mouth and nose submerged.
Breath held, lungs swell.
Hold it in, hold it in.
Chest to bursting.
Heartbeat in ears.
Only eyes above now,
semi closed, unfocussed.
Toad on the cracked ceiling.
Could stay here.
Sinking, sinking.

Twin pink knees, alien islands
floating detached in the murk.
Childhood half-memories
leap: unexpected dolphins
breaking her surface!
Rubber duckies! Shimmery fish!
Soap in her ears, Miss Matey
pink bubbles, Timotei.
Stories of iridescent mermaids
flicking their tails.
They sang with her Mum’s voice
and giggled and splashed a lot.
Straighten the leg, slow emerging…
Big toe, then second, then third…
Toe Monster!!!!

A smile tugs.
Unplugging, gurgling away
the day’s dirt and shed hair,
dead skin and cynicism.
She steps out,
feet planted sure on the
threadbare mat. Hugging
into one of those scuffy old towels
from home, from years ago.

3:47 AM

3:47 AM

Startle.
Awake.
Heart jumps.
Blood pumps.
Hands clutch at
duvet, hair,
anyone there.
Anyone there?
Breathe, breathe…
Can’t, can’t, can’t.

Blood pulsing in head.
Dead legs, won’t move.
Blink, blink.
Anyone there?
Tick, ticking.
Lips sticking on the words.
Scream in the throat.
Tongue glued.
Nothing there, nothing there.

Nothing.
But in the corner…
A form, a shadow?
A face in the wall?
A shape at the end of the bed?
Breath on your face?
Just a draught… Yes.
Footsteps on the stairs?
Just the cat…
A tap at the window?
A sharpening axe?
A tree branch.
Or…?

Too many horror films.
Like a kid,
scared of the wardrobe,
‘cause it was huge
and dark And would open
on its own at night
when you weren’t expecting,
old hinges creaking like
witch’s knees.

And mirrors.
(“if you see a ghost in the mirror
you die…”)
Screw tight your eyes.
Duvet, duvet.
Cover up, huddle up.
Pull it round close,
(knives can slash duvets…)
over the ears, tight
round the head.
So the bad things can’t crawl in.

Disappear

Disappear

She likes perfume-free soap
and scentless fabric softener.
No germ-festering make-up to
slap on and smear.
Her face is blank, carefully bland.
Hands dry, scour-pinkened.
Nails hacked back to the quick.
No bacteria-hoarding rings and bangles.
No dangling earrings, no piercings,
to get infected. She scrapes her feet
with one of those funny file things,
planing away her footprints.

She would leave no trace.
She would scrub out her DNA:
seal herself in to prevent shedding
atoms of skin, stray loose hairs,
keep her fingerprints on her fingers,
no lip stains on any glass.
She would varnish her body,
contained.
Cellophaned, vacuum-packed.
Hermetically separate.
Nothing would touch her.
She would touch nothing.

She will not linger in air:
perfume, shampoo, cigarette smoke,
like other women.
She will not be noticed.
She will not be remembered.
She smiles, unseen.

Fruit and Grit

Fruit and Grit

Our weakling hearts pulse faintly: shrunken
pebbles, grit rattling in our sunken chests.
Stunted and malnourished. Empty.

We are hungry – people are fruit.
Bursting with vitamins, minerals,
anti-oxidants, essential nutrients.
All the organic goodness we need.
All the healthy juice to slake our thirst.
There waiting for us to take it. Take it,
take it now – while the flesh is fresh,
not over-ripened in the sun. Baked past use
and fly-bitten. You want first taste.
Pick your own.
We can feed on them.

Feed on the fragrant crush of flesh: bite right in,
feel the yield and break of skin – give in.
Teeth plough deep, now tongue full and sweet.
Chew it, suck the weep and ooze of flavour.
Savour the lushness – lick your lips,
slurp the sticky slickness on your fingers.
Surprise yourself – you are full.
A thought lingers: you ate them. Whole.

All that is left is the hard, dried up middle.
Not a soul. Not a carcass.
Nothing to cremate or mourn.
Nothing to merit grief or remembrance.
Something to throw away.
Spit their pip. Bin it. Flick it.

But – it’s not a stone, not a pebble or a tiny
piece of grit or useless gristle. It’s the good
bit, the core, the seed. If you keep it
it could grow.

I See Stars

I See Stars

Let’s go.
It’s that easy.
Pack up while the sky is black.
Peel back the wallpaper where
you sealed the stash, the rescue
cash. You never knew I saw it

but I did.
This is our moment.
We can slip out while they sleep,
creeping down the stairs through
the back door: leave your keys.
People disappear all the time.
Do you think they will even care?
Ssssh. Don’t cry.

Kissing you,
kiss your eyes dry.
Now let’s move.
Get your shoes on.
Grip my hand. Stand up. This
bland old town isn’t for you and
never was. Too long it’s held you.
Tripping you up, dragging you down.
You don’t belong here.

Not much to keep.
Folded news clippings, ticket stubs,
balled up socks, a jumper.
Dump the rest. We are all we need.
You are all I want.
There’s a bus we can get, then anywhere.
Away, away, away.

Go to sleep on my shoulder;
I don’t care if you dribble.
Shush and watch the lights flash by,
the black fading into clean mauve dawn,
the same shade as the bruise under your eye.
Tomorrow is somewhere new for us.

I know.
I know you.
I see scars reflect in your wonky smile.
I see stars, cliché and all, with every step
I fall for you. Let’s fall forward.

Bomb

Bomb

He put a bomb in my chest
when he took out my heart.
The bomb is round and black
like in a cartoon
and it has a long, long fuse.

He soaked the fuse in petrol
and wound it inside and out,
through my veins, my blood,
squeezing across my lungs,
tying down my tongue.

He wound around my throat,
down across my breasts,
looping back to pin elbows,
hog-tied wrist and ankle,
pulled tight between my legs.

He put a bomb in my chest.
It is heavy and pulls me down.
Soon it will be November 5th.