Mignonne

When it comes to you
The words come rushing up
Bubbling so easily from below
Like natural springs of
Crisp, cool mountain water.

So many colours and images
Interweave in a myriad of shimmering symbols
From all the languages I have ever known.
Soft, delicate words.
Ferocious, powerful words.
Simple, sorrowful words.
Gentle, loving words.
Words I have never even heard.

Phrases clutter the back-passages
And corridors of my mind.
They slink about, beautiful and subtle,
With wry little smiles on their faces.
They shake hands with grinning similes,
High five the odd beaming metaphor.
They spin along in large open topped cars
Up and down the 6 lane highway
Between my head and my heart.

But none of them is ready.
Not one of them is quite
Perfect enough.
Not yet.
Not for you.

Child

When they got back
the door was ajar,
the handle smeared
with some dark, subtle substance.

The boys were still asleep
and her light was on
but she had gone
screaming out of that place.
You could feel it ringing in the walls
and on the smooth, mark-missed floor tiles
with not a thing to tell their heavy, searching eyes
if she had struggled,
if she had even tried.

Crying Shame

Your slippery wet fingers,
Dark and shiny,
Slide across the table
Towards me.

I am afraid
But I can’t move
Can’t turn my face
Away from them.

They shimmer
slightly
Softly
Before my eyes.
And then

Snap

They plunge
into my face,
Knuckle deep.
Your nails are neatly trimmed.

I can feel
Warm liquid
on my face.
Like tears but
Thicker.
The tang of iron
My tongue
Running over my teeth.

And I can hear you now,
But just
And quieter,
quieter still.

Go to the movies and cry your eyes out

Life is just
a series of photos
skitting past in front of my eyes.

Some of them are in black and white.
Some of them aren’t very focused.
Some of them are like incomplete drawings,
with the upturned corner of somebody’s mouth
or half of a dark grey eye.
The memories flick past like a cartoon
drawn by some crazy kid
and held together by an old blue rubber band.
They trick
my mind into them,
pulling it along like an unruly pup
on a leash.

The colours are often very real,
too true and they burn
the backs of my retinas
sting.
Some are more sober with
shadings of grays and browns.

I tried some of those
old school 3D glasses,
with the plastic lenses
to see if they could make some
sense in it all but they
just highlighted all the
mistakes in each piece
and all the
lines connecting us all.

My life is just
a series of photos
flying past in front of my eyes.
And your face
seems to keep coming out.