Monthly Archives: December 2015

There’s Something About Watching

Smoke fug hugs him, tugs at him, its fingers linger in threadbare cardigans, as he shuffles the scuffed trail across the room. Burnt toast and mug of tea to find space amongst cigarette cemetery, and the death rattle of countless martyred ballpoints choking their last dreams and declarations over stained sheaf.

 
This desk is wombed, cocooned in a wall cavity, plasterboard removed, wood frame remains and then just honest brick. Honest brick honeycombed. Twenty four seven he is drone. His glasses removed, red-ringed eyes rubbed raw, bloodshot, mind half-cocked, semi-detached. Assimilated in his chair. To watch her through the wall, her, in there.

 
Outside is bitter cold and just light, white under frost and hazed through fog. People move about on this Tuesday, this work day, to offices and factories, to nine to five. This, his inside, is nine to nine to nine to nine  all-time. ‘Career choice’ (with air fingers and in reverse order): philosopher, detective, deity.

Arson in A minor

On the train,
by the door,
going home,
when she steps in and leaves her cigarette burning on the platform.

The second week of July,
not a drop of rain for weeks,
nothing but parched ground and dry wind.

Beside the station just waving fields of yellow grass,
beyond that pine forests.

And there,
on the ground,
her discarded embers.

Smoke rising,
a pure swell,
that pure swirl,
so impure,
so perfect,
so full of consequence.
And her smell.
Just sex,
just unjust.
Just an enticement,
a coax,
a come hither,
a why bother,
to resist.
A,
‘just let the warm wind blow,
and ignite you,
and invite you’,
and not to accept a ‘no’.

Not even a smoulder,
no spark,
no gradual,
she takes me straight to those perfect orange flicking tongues,
straight to my chest,
to my heart,
to my lungs,
up my throat to breathe rough and smooth and promise,
with a glow,
in her eyes,
that it’ll just be a little forest fire,
just a minor inferno.