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No Cigar
Delay-Decay-Attack
Blind Spot / Invisible Bend
Sacred Mountain
Acid Drops
Life-Support
Now I Am Ifting
Morning After Pill

NO CIGAR

The bruise at the base of my spine is butterfly shaped, dressed and downstairs. My mother's eyes flinch away from a skinniness I'm obvlious to. Lank-haired ; skin splotched with bruises like split wine. Some few drunken srangers trying to lock their eyes into a body thats slowly disappearing, sitting-curled in on myself : at the centre of this, there must be a sort of purity if I just work myself in a little deeper. The bones that catch the cold and hold it must point somewhere. Waking, snared in the limbs of someone I never see again - an unfamiliar voice trying to pin me down with sleep-fuzzed concern. He's slack. Flesh bags round his waist and I'm repelled, I'd do anything not to have to touch. Curling tighter around a hunger that cuts to the bone, trying to find the centre that must be round here somewhere.

DELAY-DECAY-ATTACK

I shoved fistfuls of ice into my eyes and mouth and thought : Now I am away from it all. The air is warm, is black, smells of vinegar acids - wanting to dissolve to a vapour, to disappear, to be ice-cold, knife sharp, tu cut, to sear, to burn, but the light frays my nerves, hurts my eyes and then it's over. You're ill ; I'm drinking, it's morning… * My skin busters from grey to pink to scarlet. The taste is new on my lips, is coppery, burns my tongue. The air is warm, is black, smells of vinegar acids, as amand of spindle - thin bones cuts through my own. And though the red-light zone I want you to walk me home, but you snatch your hand away, you say "..." and the light frays my nerves, hurts my eyes and then it's over. You're ill ; I'm drinking, it's morning…

BLIND SPOT / INVISIBLE BEND

Your back had the same black shine as a beetle's shell. I watched it, metres ahead of me as the afternoon sunlight twitched on & off of you. The swish of your hair, the clothes, the hefty walk all say it isn't you at all. Nonetheless I'm running and the clatter of my inappropriate shoes on the asphalt spurs me on. I'm stung by the distance between us - the lamp - posts ans clumps of litter that spring like flowers from the pavement. Hollow air clangs in my lungs. Sick and dizzy I find I've caught up with someone who's not you at all, and I'm not in least bit surprised. * Months of working through strangers whose eyes or smile or voice reminds me a little of yours. Their spit has the taste of slightly you milk inside of my mouth. I've made for you a pedestral that lifts you higher up the harder I try and knock you down.

SACRED MOUNTAIN

Your hair had the colour of flacked almounds. You, underweight - seven - stong - something. It came out in strands that got caught in the back of my throat. I found sits of it in my sheets for days afterwards, and it was a reminder I didn't want at all. Someone had a photograph of you - all eyeliner and nail - polish and rainbow - coloured bracelets circling your skinny arms. When the kissing stopped, little shining strings of spit linked your mouth to mine. Your hip bones and rid-cage juited through your skin and dug into me. You bored me. It was only your prettiness and the steady stream of oddly-coloured cocktails that made me think it would be worth risking things for. The shouting started immediatly : My father saying I was a slut ; my boyfriend saying it was all over. You didn't even phone me afterwards.

ACID DROPS

If I lie here, perfectly still, I can feel myself sinking into the mattress & the sounds from the room below - shattered drumbeats & voice upon voice - exist. The walls surrounding me grow highter - pressing throbbing folding in on themselves. As I watch, blue veins coil themselves around. I lie inside an arch of scarlet moat(?) that pulses a little every time : move. The sickness rises & I wait for it to pass.

LIFE-SUPPORT

I don't mean anything by this. Building myself into a screen of songs - lyrics and an oddly sweet after-taste that comes back to me from this time to time. Glint of street-lights the same brightness & shine sits in the palm of my hand. It's only okay as long as I'm not thinking, and I'm not thinking. Sour-sweet, caught in the back of my throat & swimming through my fingers. It curdles over orange plastic, spatters the newspaper & and I'm neither releived nor dissappointed sickened & numbed over - yet underneath this, a quick thrill fizzes my veins, sparks a separate life into me. * The machine at my side thrums blood sealing - wax coloured. It catches & sucks back, back on itself. This clattering starts whenever I move, chemical smell rises in my throat, gets stuck there & I just want to get out. Dull sunlight catches the plastic chairs & over-full dustbins outside the window - and I know that it will all settle back into place now the fire has died away.

NOW I AM IFTING

The film smears over the water, orange and black, flickering : off, on, off. As the summer rain fails to cool me down or clean me up, the smell of your skin takes me back to the nights & days & sticky sheets. The rain mats the dirty fur of my coat into spikes. Your fingers are tight about my shoulders for the last time. Dissolving back into the winter & the footbeats, the sour red wine & your mouth not & stinging against mine. The trees against the sky, drippling backly into our faces, my mouth fills your with the taste of cigarettes. Trying to struggle may way back inside of it, wanting to savour the tiny hurts. Belly-down, eyes held(?) up the miniature door : hole up tight in the dense pug(?) of vanilla incense, cigarette smoke, cannabis, never wanting to get up - all now beyong my reach. Your smell mixes with the others, fades softly into the smoke, into the sheets & slips away from me. I never want to get up.

MORNING AFTER PILL

I thought of the poem with the line about the smoke being a huge-yellow cat curling around the house. A clownish figure, measuring out his life in coffee-spoons. He said the idea of bondage made him laugh ; conjured up the image of some middle-aged couple thinking they were being a bit risque in trying to spice up their lagging sex-lives with an array of contrived and cliched devices. However with his mothers apron-strings to hand, I can't imaging him saying no. You say you don't feel fully fledged, and then crawl into your mothers womb (him ?). You're too scared to agree or disagree or even think about what you want. You say you're scared of feeling trapped, and then lock yourself in your mother's house. * It started in tangled duvet covered in pictures of chubby infants, mixed drinks and the sticky-sweet taste of vomit clinging to my teeth - scene two was a damp smelly room : Marilyn, manga and bondage covered the cracks in the paintwork ; day upon day cocooned in a sheet sneared with sweat and make-up. Three month later trudging through daffodils and dogshit he talked facetiously about having gone full circle. He dragged symbolism out of football matches and nausea. We looked drugged and battered. I felt him force the roles around, making me nurse him as though the emotional betrayal(?) was some-thing I'd done to him. He caught the four-sixteen back home, leaving me standing on the platform with his sweat on my skin and cum in my hair. " Please keep in touch !… ". I couldn't see the point.

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