love, in the traditional sense
I don't think it's for me
a husband, three kids, a dog
a pint with pals only on Fridays
when every morning on my walk
and I see the robin sing
I curse my phone for not picking it up
to send to the friend who
told me the birds don't sing loud enough
to hear above city traffic, that they miss
the winter call
when I want to say please go
accept the job, that takes you 3 hours further from me
but please come back sometimes
I keep your mug on the top shelf
and she's waiting for our next chat
our wordless bottle passed from lips to lips
sustaining us, whatever it is
I am keeping that blue coat in my wardrobe
so I can hug you in it again
I send a photo: we have to try this cafe
next time you're around
I keep a bowl of oranges on the table
I keep a place set at the table
I keep you close
I can't wait to see you again
seagull with his ball
neon prawn
prize, claimed from the sea
safe from the sand
left by a child's small hand
seagull, clean it in the sea
and again, three times
and check if it's what you hoped?
no shrimp? leave it
let another feathered fool take his turn
So here's something that is less of a poem and more of a micro-fiction. It's not poetry at all but I did have fun scribbling it. If you would prefer to read it over at AO3, you can find that here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49494334
It's about a trans grave robber, and a possible vampire. CW for blood, murder, graverobbing etc. You can read below!
Kit cursed the frost that had settled on the ground - it would only make his job that much harder tonight. Getting the shovel though the frozen earth, even freshly dug, would be a nightmare. That was if the crunch of his every footstep didn’t alert the watchmen around the cemetery first. His hands were already red and numb at the tips, and even the wool around his joints did nothing to dull the ache that had settled in. Damn it all, he thought, damn every circumstance that had led him to take this life. Anyone sane was bundled up in front of any hearth they could get in front of, within any shelter they could get in this godforsaken city. Kit wasn’t sure that kind of comfort would be in his future anytime soon, not unless something miraculous happened, and this wasn’t the kind of city that you found miracles in. Not for people like him.
Kit picked his way across the kirkyard, he bet you wouldn’t find the anatomists and surgeons out of doors in this, not for anything. They were far too busy indoors with their scalpels and knives, well off enough to not need to stain their own hands with such a crime. Hunger drove them all, only it was less metaphorical for the poor resurrectionists like Kit and the scores of others in rookeries or slums dotted around the city that did whatever they could to keep food in their bellies. Hunger: for money, for knowledge, for a hot meal. That was what kept turning the cogs of the machine they called progress. He’d take what he could get, and keep taking until he had enough to run from this life and to whatever he could grasp. Kit knew the odds were stacked against men like him. Men with secrets buried better than anyone in this kirkyard could be.
He was for once, grateful for the linen bindings around his chest - at least they were extra protection from the cold. His shabby coat was in desperate need of repair, although he’d been recommended it would be better served to fuel a fire, but Kit was damned if he was spending any of the paltry coins he earned on something so frivolous. This one would do. He wrapped it tighter around himself and tried not to shiver. He had to remind himself he’d chosen this, that he was strong enough to weather a night like this. What other option did he have? Crawl back home to the town houses, look upon his parents faces again and beg them to take him back? That he’d do anything they asked, deny who he was and marry that dull-witted fool Sir Edward they’d settled on? No, he couldn’t do that. Being blown apart by grave guns was a more appealing fate than that.
Kit stumbled over a mound of earth, hidden in the poor light and the mist that had settled. No surprise he lost his footing now that his chilled feet could barely tell what they were trampling over anymore. The grave he’d marked out as his prey, the grave he’d watched filled in earlier that afternoon, was hollow. If he didn’t know how crucial his silence was, he’d sit back and howl in frustration. So few burials had taken place the past week with the weather continuing to conspire against him and his ilk, suitable bodies were few and far between. No honour among thieves and all that: you had to be quick, and Kit hadn’t been quick enough tonight. The dearly departed loved ones were probably relieved to know the bitter cold and the blasted snow would keep the graverobbers away for just long enough for their sons, mothers, sweethearts to earn their promised rest and escape the doctor’s theatres.
There was a thud. Nearby, not close enough to be any real danger, but near enough that Kit’s pulse picked up. It wasn’t the soft thud of earth being moved, the crack of a coffin, even the shock of a gravegun. Like a body hitting the ground. Oh, the irony. Kit hoped whoever it was had fallen in an empty grave and broken a leg. He was not feeling charitable tonight. If it was someone struggling with what should have been his prize, he should go and help lighten their load. He’d maybe strike it lucky with someone who’d split whatever they could get for the cadaver - maybe he’d have something to eat and a place for the night after all. Anything would be better than nothing.
As Kit quietly gathered his tools to move off towards the source of the noise, which had already stopped. He knew he should be more wary, really, this wasn’t his first circus, but it was nearly two in the morning and he’d really had enough of it all. A shadow split away from the night, beside the marble monument 3 graves over. Kit froze. He wouldn’t scream, it’d be the end for him either way. There was something familiar about the tall imposing frame materialising in front of Kit, the cut of that coat, the suggestion of lamplight playing off of the coal black waves of his hair… Clem.
“Tough night for you?”
The shadow stepped forward, a flash of white teeth and clothing far too fine to be worn to a cemetery in the small hours of a winter’s night noticeable in the dim lamplight. Kit bit back a curse.
“Come on, you could be happier to see me! I’ve got something for you.”
And that couldn’t be anything good, not coming from Clem. The sharp featured young man had his own reasons for sneaking around here, and Kit suspected they were far worse than his own. At least Kit only took the ones that had finished with their lives, not to get too moralistic about it, but he wasn’t a murderer likely to find himself on a surgeon’s slab himself. Clem could suit himself, it wasn’t any business of Kit’s how he spent his nights.
Clem stepped forward, reaching to take the lamp and shovel from Kit’s grip, whose knuckles were white and flesh turning a pallid blue. He shoved his now free hands deep into the pockets of the stolen overcoat, and decided not to analyse why he wanted to return the grin on Clem’s face. Lack of sleep gets to a boy after a while, that’s all. It meant nothing, he didn’t feel any draw to the other man other than pure curiosity.
“Did you follow me here? Is that what happened?”
Clem laughed, a sharp and quiet laugh, “Oh darling, I was here hours ago - saw your little friend dragged out as soon as I arrived. Bad luck by the way, but you did take your time coming back. That’s a lesson to you - early bird and all that.”
He turned to bestow a pitiful look at Kit, the pout on his lips sparking annoyance in Kit’s gut. Kit was having none of it, not after the mess that tonight had shaped into.
“Either help me out or fuck off, in case you didn’t notice it’s bloody cold out here.” A quiet laugh came from in front of him, the lantern’s light dancing around as they ducked behind a masoleum.
“Such a temper! Come on, just over here and you’ll thank me for earning you a decent night’s pay.”
Clem set the light down and leant on the shovel and Kit peered around the hedge. The pale flesh peeking from the swathes of fabric almost made him baulk, he didn’t want to think about why Clem would have been here with someone else after dark. What was the best excuse for this? Was Clem the one who took his prize? The alternative was a little too unsavoury to bear thinking about.
“You..? You took.. The other grave?”
Clem shook his head and snorted.
“Darling, do you think I spent my evening knees deep in that horrendous dirt? And still looking so immaculate?” Clem spun so the skirt of his coat danced around his calves. Kit didn’t want to say he’d not be able to tell if the deep jet of Clem’s coat was coated in gravedirt or not, and didn't feel pointing out the now obvious differences in their night vision, or their sensibilities, would be worth the time to say them out loud.
“Look, she’s perfectly fresh if that’s what you’re worried about. No maggots, no rot; I promise you.”
Kit stared blankly at the barely lit side of the corpse’s face, the slender pale neck, the dark rust smear beneath the ear. The crisp whiteness of the skin, fragile as first snow. Bloodless and cold.
You had to have a strong constitution in this line of work, but clearly he hadn’t worked on it enough. The sight disturbed him more than it had any right to.
“What’s wrong? I can help you carry-”
“I can’t take her, I can’t,” Kit turned his horrified gaze from the ground, and to Clem’s bewildered face, “They’ll notice something’s not right. She’s not right, what did you do?”
Clem sniffed, delicately. “Only what’s natural to me, darling.” He pushed the shovel into Kit’s bundled chest. “You can’t hate me for surviving as best I can, how hypocritical you would be.”
Kit spluttered. It was clear Clem had a comfortable existence, didn’t have to beg and scavenge for every scrap he won for himself. How else would he still dress like that, keep himself so well groomed?
“Take her, or leave her to rot. What’s it to me?”
And before Kit could say anything else, Clem had turned on his heel and melted back into the misty darkness. Kit stood there, wordless and stunned. He supposed he should fetch the cart and do what he’d come to do in the first place. Plenty of surgeons wouldn’t ask a single question, wouldn’t worry about the how’s and why’s.
Clem had given him a gift, and he was in no position to refuse it.
seagull with his ball
neon prawn
prize, claimed from the sea
safe from the sand
left by a child's small hand
seagull, clean it in the sea
and again, three times
and check if it's what you hoped?
no shrimp? leave it
let another feathered fool take his turn
So here's something that is less of a poem and more of a micro-fiction. It's not poetry at all but I did have fun scribbling it. If you would prefer to read it over at AO3, you can find that here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/49494334
It's about a trans grave robber, and a possible vampire. CW for blood, murder, graverobbing etc. You can read below!
Kit cursed the frost that had settled on the ground - it would only make his job that much harder tonight. Getting the shovel though the frozen earth, even freshly dug, would be a nightmare. That was if the crunch of his every footstep didn’t alert the watchmen around the cemetery first. His hands were already red and numb at the tips, and even the wool around his joints did nothing to dull the ache that had settled in. Damn it all, he thought, damn every circumstance that had led him to take this life. Anyone sane was bundled up in front of any hearth they could get in front of, within any shelter they could get in this godforsaken city. Kit wasn’t sure that kind of comfort would be in his future anytime soon, not unless something miraculous happened, and this wasn’t the kind of city that you found miracles in. Not for people like him.
Kit picked his way across the kirkyard, he bet you wouldn’t find the anatomists and surgeons out of doors in this, not for anything. They were far too busy indoors with their scalpels and knives, well off enough to not need to stain their own hands with such a crime. Hunger drove them all, only it was less metaphorical for the poor resurrectionists like Kit and the scores of others in rookeries or slums dotted around the city that did whatever they could to keep food in their bellies. Hunger: for money, for knowledge, for a hot meal. That was what kept turning the cogs of the machine they called progress. He’d take what he could get, and keep taking until he had enough to run from this life and to whatever he could grasp. Kit knew the odds were stacked against men like him. Men with secrets buried better than anyone in this kirkyard could be.
He was for once, grateful for the linen bindings around his chest - at least they were extra protection from the cold. His shabby coat was in desperate need of repair, although he’d been recommended it would be better served to fuel a fire, but Kit was damned if he was spending any of the paltry coins he earned on something so frivolous. This one would do. He wrapped it tighter around himself and tried not to shiver. He had to remind himself he’d chosen this, that he was strong enough to weather a night like this. What other option did he have? Crawl back home to the town houses, look upon his parents faces again and beg them to take him back? That he’d do anything they asked, deny who he was and marry that dull-witted fool Sir Edward they’d settled on? No, he couldn’t do that. Being blown apart by grave guns was a more appealing fate than that.
Kit stumbled over a mound of earth, hidden in the poor light and the mist that had settled. No surprise he lost his footing now that his chilled feet could barely tell what they were trampling over anymore. The grave he’d marked out as his prey, the grave he’d watched filled in earlier that afternoon, was hollow. If he didn’t know how crucial his silence was, he’d sit back and howl in frustration. So few burials had taken place the past week with the weather continuing to conspire against him and his ilk, suitable bodies were few and far between. No honour among thieves and all that: you had to be quick, and Kit hadn’t been quick enough tonight. The dearly departed loved ones were probably relieved to know the bitter cold and the blasted snow would keep the graverobbers away for just long enough for their sons, mothers, sweethearts to earn their promised rest and escape the doctor’s theatres.
There was a thud. Nearby, not close enough to be any real danger, but near enough that Kit’s pulse picked up. It wasn’t the soft thud of earth being moved, the crack of a coffin, even the shock of a gravegun. Like a body hitting the ground. Oh, the irony. Kit hoped whoever it was had fallen in an empty grave and broken a leg. He was not feeling charitable tonight. If it was someone struggling with what should have been his prize, he should go and help lighten their load. He’d maybe strike it lucky with someone who’d split whatever they could get for the cadaver - maybe he’d have something to eat and a place for the night after all. Anything would be better than nothing.
As Kit quietly gathered his tools to move off towards the source of the noise, which had already stopped. He knew he should be more wary, really, this wasn’t his first circus, but it was nearly two in the morning and he’d really had enough of it all. A shadow split away from the night, beside the marble monument 3 graves over. Kit froze. He wouldn’t scream, it’d be the end for him either way. There was something familiar about the tall imposing frame materialising in front of Kit, the cut of that coat, the suggestion of lamplight playing off of the coal black waves of his hair… Clem.
“Tough night for you?”
The shadow stepped forward, a flash of white teeth and clothing far too fine to be worn to a cemetery in the small hours of a winter’s night noticeable in the dim lamplight. Kit bit back a curse.
“Come on, you could be happier to see me! I’ve got something for you.”
And that couldn’t be anything good, not coming from Clem. The sharp featured young man had his own reasons for sneaking around here, and Kit suspected they were far worse than his own. At least Kit only took the ones that had finished with their lives, not to get too moralistic about it, but he wasn’t a murderer likely to find himself on a surgeon’s slab himself. Clem could suit himself, it wasn’t any business of Kit’s how he spent his nights.
Clem stepped forward, reaching to take the lamp and shovel from Kit’s grip, whose knuckles were white and flesh turning a pallid blue. He shoved his now free hands deep into the pockets of the stolen overcoat, and decided not to analyse why he wanted to return the grin on Clem’s face. Lack of sleep gets to a boy after a while, that’s all. It meant nothing, he didn’t feel any draw to the other man other than pure curiosity.
“Did you follow me here? Is that what happened?”
Clem laughed, a sharp and quiet laugh, “Oh darling, I was here hours ago - saw your little friend dragged out as soon as I arrived. Bad luck by the way, but you did take your time coming back. That’s a lesson to you - early bird and all that.”
He turned to bestow a pitiful look at Kit, the pout on his lips sparking annoyance in Kit’s gut. Kit was having none of it, not after the mess that tonight had shaped into.
“Either help me out or fuck off, in case you didn’t notice it’s bloody cold out here.” A quiet laugh came from in front of him, the lantern’s light dancing around as they ducked behind a masoleum.
“Such a temper! Come on, just over here and you’ll thank me for earning you a decent night’s pay.”
Clem set the light down and leant on the shovel and Kit peered around the hedge. The pale flesh peeking from the swathes of fabric almost made him baulk, he didn’t want to think about why Clem would have been here with someone else after dark. What was the best excuse for this? Was Clem the one who took his prize? The alternative was a little too unsavoury to bear thinking about.
“You..? You took.. The other grave?”
Clem shook his head and snorted.
“Darling, do you think I spent my evening knees deep in that horrendous dirt? And still looking so immaculate?” Clem spun so the skirt of his coat danced around his calves. Kit didn’t want to say he’d not be able to tell if the deep jet of Clem’s coat was coated in gravedirt or not, and didn't feel pointing out the now obvious differences in their night vision, or their sensibilities, would be worth the time to say them out loud.
“Look, she’s perfectly fresh if that’s what you’re worried about. No maggots, no rot; I promise you.”
Kit stared blankly at the barely lit side of the corpse’s face, the slender pale neck, the dark rust smear beneath the ear. The crisp whiteness of the skin, fragile as first snow. Bloodless and cold.
You had to have a strong constitution in this line of work, but clearly he hadn’t worked on it enough. The sight disturbed him more than it had any right to.
“What’s wrong? I can help you carry-”
“I can’t take her, I can’t,” Kit turned his horrified gaze from the ground, and to Clem’s bewildered face, “They’ll notice something’s not right. She’s not right, what did you do?”
Clem sniffed, delicately. “Only what’s natural to me, darling.” He pushed the shovel into Kit’s bundled chest. “You can’t hate me for surviving as best I can, how hypocritical you would be.”
Kit spluttered. It was clear Clem had a comfortable existence, didn’t have to beg and scavenge for every scrap he won for himself. How else would he still dress like that, keep himself so well groomed?
“Take her, or leave her to rot. What’s it to me?”
And before Kit could say anything else, Clem had turned on his heel and melted back into the misty darkness. Kit stood there, wordless and stunned. He supposed he should fetch the cart and do what he’d come to do in the first place. Plenty of surgeons wouldn’t ask a single question, wouldn’t worry about the how’s and why’s.
Clem had given him a gift, and he was in no position to refuse it.
i’ve never picked up the knack
our mothers had for bumping into each other
supermarkets - 5 years since the last school run
ask about the kids, the mothers, your health?
i try it, feel out of my skin
my name on your lips
burnt to the ground in the circles
i dance around these days
things have changed and that’s okay
like the songs we sung in high school
maybe we don’t know each other now
when you cried on my shoulder
when he dumped you over skype
(because this was the 2010’s
and we spent saturday’s glued to the screen
instead of walking down the street)
i still have sleepovers like 15
with other friends from a decade ago
maybe we don’t know each other now
ships in the night, and never again
my new name around my neck
friends from 11, left for friends from 19
and i don’t hide anymore
behind toilet doors, false names, excuses for me
I am me, again, for the first time
buzzing in my head that maybe
maybe
we didn’t know each other at all
violets, come quick and slow
creeping through concrete towards the sun
green flash, cover and blanket
cheek pressed against cold stone
the ants pass me by, and by and by
as i await a prize of overwhelming purple
that never arrived, flushed by the rain
how can i miss what never arrived?
plans to press each one, gently paste them
and post them to you
one by one
but they never bloomed, and i think
there’s meaning somewhere there
to leave it alone, and leave the violets
to wither away without ever being here
I'm flipping through a new album
as the world passes me by in the
backseat of a car
I've daydreamed in since I was small
every line, let me wrap it and seal it
send it to you, tied up with string
"Isn't it wonderful?"
mouthing the words to love songs
I want to beg you join in
with me
with us
how to say I love you a thousand times
without it falling flat?
without begging you to say it back?
not in that way, but I do.
I love you
I love you I love you I love
You.
standing in a doorway
a porch, more like
at a house from my childhood
that grows weeds every year
(this is not quite a metaphor)
collecting insects gathered by nightlights
in the cold light of day
lifeless, empty vessels
the beauty gone from the moth
she lies, a sad papercraft figure
this world didn't spare
the bee joins her in this
summer time mausoleum
to remind me of a lonely 6 weeks
of my youth, plush animals left lying
abandoned on my bedroom floor
and i wonder where they are now
these years later
souls lost and gone from me forever
like the tattered bodies on the wooden porch
I hope the world doesn’t forget you too
I am tired
life has wrung me out, heat leeching me
leaving me to find my peace
in the wildflower meadow
behind my grandfather’s house
insects sing high above, their final throes
ending in the swallows beak
the cricket serenade, low and stable
my back to the wheat
carry your love to me on their wings
I place my song in them
to take home to you
sweet, christmastime, summertime scent
my nail pierce the dimples, smile they say
gently, hurriedly, to get to the prize
in a kitchen, in a field, in the car
left saved for us to meet, and split the flesh
can you count nine segments between us all?
will we still be equals, old and new friends alike?
quick, grab another
we’ll savour together, juice staining each hand in turn
bird song, bird screech
visitor in the kitchen, in awe
stars blotted on inky wings, fog in my eyes
a kettle boils, a cat sighs
come together and split the fruit with me
plans sat on the countertop, stale
in the heat where it gathers
pools, drips down like a melted
popsicle
gathering the puddle, freeze it all into place
but it coats my fingers, stained rusty
sticky skin, itching to be free
dividing my oranges, a piece for you
and you and you and me
the juice drips down down
down
from each segment of my sticky
coated brain
taking my time to weave a little magic
place my words carefully
raise the spell, cradling it home
weaving my magic between each letter
wrapped in ink flow, bold as brass
capturing my carrion shriek
next to your songbird melody
the magic you hold in this refrain
stitch it together with me, heartsblood cries out
lacing each note, come home to me
rest beneath my wing and we’ll hold it close
taking my time to stitch together this glorious
mess of blood and bone
taking up your time to carry it home, raise it to the sky
sing and scream and only we can know what it means
an antidote to the evil in the claw of the hawk
the sin of the hooked beak
we cannot seek to destroy, burn it all down
in the crescendo of a lark
we’ll weave this little magic and bring it all home
would you hold out a hand and say softly
in the voice of a first love, and be my last?
gently take my hand, a caress over a knuckle and press your fatal kiss upon?
"come now, come my love, hush"
a spear through my chest, the started sob
oozing from my flesh
I’d prepared a battleground
kept my sword sharpened, readied my armor
and yet, you sidled in, the lightest of mists
cradling me like a babe, stealing my very last breath
thieving air from my lungs
carrying my soul away, into the inky midnight
taking a step out of sync
stumbling, her hand catches me and we smile
my heart stutters and i know
my soul has taken a left at the ‘right turn’ sign
clinging to one another, laughter erupting
I beg her to get it over
rip off the bandaid, rip out my heart
I can cope with her sharp nails biting my ribs
tearing open my flesh with careless teeth
blood dripping from her chin, as sweet as syrup
my eyes locked with hers
fever bright and i am burning up in her atmosphere
I know i won’t make it out of here unscathed
I know she doesn’t know, and decide i don’t care
anymore
my rabbit heart is beating
caught up in headlights
we’re looking to flee, get out quick
run down the field, run into the wheels
take our chances
keep your kind hands out of my way
my hart’s antlers will take you on
you think you can rein me in this way?
how i wish you could temper this feral nature
instinctual fear pulsing in my veins
rabbit-hearted houdini panic attack
hits the car crash feeling, smoking engine
breathing a sigh of relief
