You Taught Me How to Make Wine Bottles Cry (Inspired by Louise Bourgeois' Cells)

I swallow his words
like small spiders
in my sleep,
awake pinned
by his arms,
spine twisted
in his palms
until I prickle,
thistled.

Our children
are glass bottles
we hang
from the ceiling,
untie at night
and roll
across the carpet
like clicking marbles.

Missing

If I go have a shower,
will you still be here
when I get back?
You hover by the door,
pluck threads from the towel
in your hand.

Each time
in your absence
I toy with the idea
of disappearing.

If I buy breakfast,
you won’t leave
while I’m gone?
Your pockets crackle,
you scoop change from a bowl
on the desk.

I could dress quickly,
click my heels
and leave
no note.

If I make some coffee,
don’t go anywhere
will you?
You scatch your stomach
and scan the floor
for trousers.

I was not prepared
for your reaction
when I hid
in the wardrobe.

Ecseri - unfinished

A chest of haggard dolls
and a beaten roller skate
snap at my fingers.

A cacophony of abandoned
string instruments
creak on a shelf,
glass gas lamps tarnish.

I am too afraid to touch
the porcelein or examine
strung up street signs
clanging in the wind.

Caged chairs clamber
across one another, discarded
rubber limbs writhe
in a heap on a cart,

scarred clocks leer
at ruby film posters,
flocks of chandeliers loom
over lock jawed wardrobes

Purple furred, beside an oven,
she sells postcards of
bear baiting, a frozen lake,
a faded holiday camp,
wishing they were here.

Lemon sun through
the reflection
of a window,
the hills
breathe cherry smoke,
the wind blows
chemical kisses.

You stroke my palm
with green fingers.

She spoke four
languages
behind my back.

It is still cheating,
you said, Just because
she is a woman.
I am not above
hitting a woman.

I pressed my idiolect
between
paper feathers.

On our return, an old
woman sits
by the roadside
holding a cardboard box
filled with coloured paper
and small yellow birds.
Fortunes.

Dolour

Eating green apples

on a grey day

in a white room,

the lamp plays

hopscotch

on parquet wood tiles,

the glass bell

of the water pipe

sighs.

Outside the window

two men argue

about the price

of flowers,

a tram sails past,

ash sprinkles

the sky.

Yesterday was salmon

and falafel, tonight

will be

an Irish cat,

tomorrow

I will hurl

your guitar

through the glass

and

leave.

Rothko (2nd draft)

Caught within
a wire mesh cloud,
skin torn like wool
on a barbed wire fence.

In a field that smells of cinder
and charred fence posts
ashen lily petals crackle
in cellophane puddles.

You stand out like a stare,
the way you caught my eye
then blinked,

heavy lidded,
a swollen tongue,
thick and wet
licked across the sky.

Submission (2nd draft)

the last thing i said to you
is 'don't leave me here'

we played
until our knuckles bled
and our hands resembled
branches seared
by lightening

invisible, i pace the room
playing hide and seek
with the cracks in the wood
poking my fingers through
to touch the wind

the smell of you lingers,
i strip down, discard
your touch, smear
traces of a song
across the walls

it continues to rain
long after the
breathing stops