Suicide is subjective

I hate to hate.

It’s an all consuming tumour

that grows and deviates.

I loathe these loathings,

but my loathing’s at an eight.

I raise my score card high

and give out my bold rating

because I can’t continue placating

a lazy oaf and broken wife;

to him she went for a walk,

to me she held a knife

to her wrists and pressed down hard.

Hard enough to leave ravaged scars.

This woman, desperate, on her knees

is my mother, mother please,

save yourself from these raw feelings

and take the rope down off the ceiling.

I know that you are grieving

the woman you once were

and the man that he once was

and I know it hurts, it fucking hurts

that he thinks you went to walk.

He can’t even talk about it while

My mind shouts, it shouts enraged

that he is at a loss, completely disengaged.

You are both coming to an age

where the focus should be one-on-one,

not subtle snipes and blinkered eyes

where no one bothers to even try.

He thinks she went for a walk

and I really hate to hate

but right now I want to shake him

and wake him up with cutting words

and slit open eyes.

Steps away from the sea

isn’t going for a walk

and if you refuse to talk or

look and see

and make things better

through your own responsibility

as a husband to a sick wife

then what happens next

is round your neck

like an albatross or coarse noose

that you will never shake away or lose.

May you live with it

and may it burn with friction

from your lack of acknowledgement,

care or diction.

and may it prick and cut like little knives.

May you drown from the guilt

of your sickly wife’s actions.

This is my poor mother; mother please,

Get up off your fallen knees.

Know your worth and know your pain;

make changes so this won’t repeat again.

I hate to hate this man, my father;

for hate consumes and deviates;

but I hate this situation

and this blind, blinkered ugly state.

“He thinks she went for a walk”

spins in my sickened, breathless head.

She was walking, walking, walking, Dad,

she was walking to her death.

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Last Night Part II

I am putting wax in my hair,

and my brother, suited and debonaire,

calls out to me to sort the buckle

on his black waistcoat.

I fiddle and fuss and make a mess

but its the best I can do

I stress as we wax lyrical in a

slightly cynical way as to why

our mother held us both,

separately,

told us she loved us,

separately,

and would always love us

no matter what happens.

I mime a hanging.

He nods his head.

We both grimace a grin

and try to smirk

as we work our way out of fear

with gallows humour.

He says:

“Sooner or later,

she’s gonna do it,

if she wants to do it.

There’s nothing we can do

so we might as well  go and have fun,

just be done with it,

and leave her to it.”

I wonder if my brother is a sociopath

and bite my barbed tongue.

A little while longer and my brother leaves.

Gets a lift off my Dad

to go and paint the town red

while I sit alone, padding out my evening

with nail varnish, denial,

pensive thoughts and vain preening.

Unsure of what to believe in

I hear the door slam,

I hear the dogs bark

and I start to panic and

search; I call my sister

before my dad arrives home

“Where the fuck is she?” he snaps;

I say I don’t know

“I’m going to fucking kill her”

he says,

before he coldly explains that

She left a note about demons

and pain that wont leave;

she’s aware of the pain she will cause,

‘but be happy’ she pleads.

I tug at waxed hair

this Icarus can’t understand

I try to breathe but I’m melting,

falling apart from this land

that is crumpling under me

like her broken face.

I don’t know how to fix

this woman I love and to make

everything OK and it all spins and I take

a huge breath

but then the door slams

and her howls are heard

as she keens to the moon

like an animal trapped

and he screams in her face:

“Did you fucking take anything?”

“No I promise!”

She cracks:

“I went to the sea.

I just wanted to die.

But then I got scared of the dark

and I thought why

does that even matter now –

why does it even matter?”

I go up to my room

my heart tattered and ripped;

because there is no way to fix

the urge to join the sea.

It’s the world’s biggest bully,

charismatic, it’s free.

What can we offer her,

but a working class life?

With a bored, boring husband

and the end of family life?

Grown up kids are all leaving

and making homes of their own

but my mountain is falling,

growing smaller

alone.

What if she disappears

and enters the sea?

And this huge part of my life

can no longer be seen?

I want to fight nature.

I want to scream in its fat fucking face.

But you can’t fight with nature.

I should accept my place.

If she leaves me she leaves me;

I can’t fight demons I can’t see.

If she leaves me, she leaves me.

And her demons come to me.

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Woman

You, woman,

with your many forms and faces,

have taken so much from me.

A cash flow now trickles;

a booming heart now constricts.

You, woman,

with your labyrinthinian mind,

have wrapped me in webs.

My body robbed of its bravery;

my mind shorn of its strength.

You, woman,

have your wild world still hidden;

oh baby, baby, its your feminine wiles,

that have binded me to your kind.

You, woman,

embrace who you are,

raise up your dress;

show me your soft secrets

and put me under duress.

You, woman,

with your youth, cold truths

and cruel callous laughs,

should embrace this present power;

for life is long and lingering

and of many a dark hour.

_alpip

Bondage

We talk and type and text and take

the time of those we will never make

the ones we love; its past now: loved,

as we try to forget the past, its shoved

to the back of my black mind

as it twists and turns and tries to find

a way to make sense of this bind.

This bind’s unkind, a bondage, blue,

masochistic; I am for you.

I am? Its passed. You’re past it, through.

I remove the shackles, keep walking through.

Take a leap of faith, they say to me, to you,

but for me the leap is toward truth.

I release the chains of desire for faith,

and I remove the ropes of hope that burn and chafe,

for me the freedom is a different shape.

Its cold and dark and twisted to the core

and I wrap myself around it more

with every word I hear from your hot, hot, mouth

with your heated breath and tastes of dreams

of stars and hearts and scars and screams

of pain and fear and misery

that is what becomes of love to me.

The freedom roars and roars until its hoarse

behind the wall I made myself

I hear the bellows more and more

but the freedom comes from my own health

and right now the wall is freeing

as I sneak peeks at other beings

and feel invincible behind my shield

Ive found a bond, an Achille’s heel,

that plays as Samson’s golden locks

and in my heart this new freedom mocks

but behind my wall I feel safe and free

from the pain that others can pass on to me.

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Solace

I go in the kitchen,

see her squat shape

squared, hunched

as she urinates into

the purple plastic bowl.

This is my home now.

This is my home.

 

This is the place

where plates pile up with old food,

old stories, old news

is hoarded to peruse

and bring out on display

because pain doesn’t go away.

And bowls devoid of chicken soup

for the soul are instead

pissed in and poured out

by pissy preachers  on a roll.

Others use hoods

to cover their eyes

as a way to hide from the lies.

My parents kid themselves:

He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah.

She loves you, yeah, yeah yeah.

But what is love

and what is marriage

but a carriage horse drawn

with horses dead, flayed, torn?

From ruins opinions born.

My brother and I: jaded, bored.

And full of hurt, pride, scorn.

This won’t be us.

This won’t be us.

We won’t be scrambled,

trampled, bruised.

By the zombie horse

on course with cart and carriage.

disparaging;

we are not you.

We won’t be you.

We will love true

or remain alone,

our solace true.

_LAMEUTER

You are a ghost now

The library of my life

goes in three year segments;

you have a whole shelf

to yourself.

The settling dust brings the mights

and what ifs into the night,

but the days cause the fading

caused by a life continually changing.

My dear,

You are a ghost now.

Some of these books’ words are too faded

to read; they would need

a fence sitting historian to search text

find the sex,

find our love, find love’s death;

of the pains that harmed health.

The death I remember.

Will remember forever, but,

my dear,

You are a ghost now.

An unclear sight before me,

you stand in my minds eye.

It gets harder to see you now,

and easier to not yearn, ache, or cry.

I can see us dancing, you pulling faces,

romancing me, but the kissing

memories are cold, confused, missing.

My dear,

You are a ghost now.

The library of my life

goes in three year segments;

You earned a whole shelf

to yourself.

I will try my best to protect it,

not dissect it, or be selective,

but enjoy it for what it was:

my first love; first love lost.

My dear,

You are a ghost now.

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Soar points

I have thoughts and dreams

and in between

are thoughts of me and you.

I want to swim and rebirth, begin,

with my maker boasting blues.

Lets match and patch this clockwork quilt

and tumble through the grooves

of this wave each passing day

I drown in thoughts of you.

So lets begin and swim and sing

the songs that singers do

when they’re happy and in love

and know their love is true.

I sing for you I sing for you

a bird with bold yet beaten tunes

I flap these wings and push my sins

away, away; please do.

Because I can’t live if I can’t forgive

with a forgiving forgiven you.

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