Flies – Pt II

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This day, like others in the house

away from the wind

is filled with small plotlines


Squashed by a clap of the hands in an hour

as the pen scribbles out the point


Plotline, space, plotline, space

one fly killed, space, ten flies killed


A walk around the block

(a purpose slotted into a space)


The flies appear aimless, but they’re not

 I appear full of purpose, but


 I find

the day whittled away

with only squashed flies to show for it.

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Flies – pt I

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All day long, away from the cloudy wind

grabbing flies from the air

Absurd irritation in their dizzying dance
and so rude,
the small and silent attack
on personal space

Poetry works when small and large things
are put in dialogue

Like my hand on this page, or me in this house
and the flies around my face

Is that rain?

The Year Pt. I

That morning
after a late one,
laughing and falling back asleep
or one is asleep
the other just holding her
watching light flicker on the wall

Neither knows what time it is
both know it doesn’t matter
there’s no time
with you

Last night faded faraway
and you in my
arms here,
the white sheets and me
cradling you asleep
fingers softly on
the pillow

A phone buzzes
but there’s nothing
outside of this room,
to take you away from me, now

Nothing but time

Shattered Monday

I slammed my fist hard
through the pixels of the screen
expecting a howl

all I got was a broken wrist
and an aching head
so I just sat on the sticky kitchen floor
softly cradling my wrist
and my head

and jacks fell dancing out of my eyes
as my vision slowly started to shatter

and I looked out of the window,
somewhat obscured by empty bottles
left there for months

I saw a woman walking by with a dog
casually eating crisps
as if in slow motion
crisp after crisp

like nothing in the world has happened
or will ever happen
and that’s just the way these
things go

separated by windows, walls,
broken screens and broken wrists
outside and inside
you’re always stuck in one or the other

when someone else reaches in
the image flips and now

you’re on the other side, gone
you can’t even see them
the connection is so bad

they don’t feel the pain
of your broken wrist
the pain of squinting outside
at the woman eating crisps

the pain of her dog limping beside her
and the crisp packet that will run out soon
its insides ransacked

the pain of
the sticky floor you’re sprawled on
the grey light coming in over the bottle tops

clutching your wrist, your head, your heart