Plankton Boy

Plankton Boy

He’s as romantic as plankton
and smells about the same.

Old ponds and green things.
Organic matter and nature,

looking after all those bugs
and bacteria. He nurtures

his very own eco-system.
So I kind of love him, for that.

Green Eyes, Black Eyes

Green Eyes, Black Eyes

Meeting his green eyes,
bloodshot cold over her
shoulder in the mirror.
(They’ve always been blue.)

His hand curls over
her collarbone,
her neck.
Mascara wand drops,
catching gritty coal stain
on her dress.

“you’re going out,
wearing that…”
Not a question.
“Seeing friends…” she bleats,
just the same. His breath,
still beating her neck, his
heat, close up her back.
“I’ll see you later, love.”
His “love” crackles
her spine.

“Is that a threat or
a promise?”
she murmurs: shaky,
attempting flirtation or is it
desperation, flattery to
distract, purr to preserve.
She’s determined,
this time,
it must work.

It doesn’t.

Meeting two black eyes
in the mirror,
in the normal morning,
the blur of local radio
burring her throbbing ears:
travel updates and market day
cattle prices. Some fuss over
planning for a new supermarket.
Black eyes in grey face, staring
blank holes lost to caring,
with purple shading to
fade to indigo and yellow.
Pretty rainbows,
colour-washed for being…
good?

Eating on one side
of bruise-numb jaw.
Choking down
cardboard cornflakes wetted
with blood-leak and bile.
Teeth all counted, even
the wobblers.
Birds titter outside.

Clearing up last night’s
screaming debris.
Binbag and newspaper to
wrap up the smashed up.
(She’d need a whole lot
of newspaper…)
“You’d better have
this shit-hole cleaned
up, my love,
‘cause I don’t want
to have to…
I don’t want to…”

Was it a threat
or a threat?

Hope

Hope

There’s this tree
at the end of the road.
It’s just coming out
in blossom. I don’t know
what it is – to me, it’s just
a tree. But a good tree.

I look at it, the tree,
while I wait for the bus,
every day. Pinky-white
flowers, tiny things,
floating about, weightless.
People say it’s like confetti,
but it makes me think
of dandruff. Only nice.

It was there last week
of course. The week before
and all through winter. But
I never particularly saw it.
Just a tree: stark, drab,
greyish bark and no leaves,
nothing pretty to see.
Biding its time for
March sunlight.
Maybe.

Now, I look at it, the tree,
and I smile. Just a tree.
Only a tree. But I smile
at the bus stop.
Like a nutter.
Someone
smiles at me.