No Tall Stories

One wet finger
of my free hand
Wet from baby formula
Hits letters on the keyboard
to type these words
My baby nestled
in the crook
The crook of my left shoulder
The suck suck suck
dummy noise
Reminds me of Maggie Simpson
I can barely read these words
These one wet fingered words
Through my daughters curious smudge
My daughters smudge on my glasses
Sometimes that dummy gets boring
Sometimes you just need to
smudge something
Something, anything,

with wet fingers.

You’re late again.

The smell of old books

on your breath.

Once a reader

always a reader..

So I’ve been told.

The ink smudges on your collar

give you away.

But I only have myself

to blame,

I don’t keep books at home.

My unsaturated glass glared
undrenchedly from the shelf,
Light reflected dryly from its
Empty twisted curvatures
And inflicted its dullness
Upon the room.

Fuck you glass.

And you, my carefully crafted
Decanter. Enjoy the stale air.
Meditate upon your own transparency.
Your vacuousness insults the room,
And I shall retort by saying;

“You do look much better full.”

Its true.

I know I shouldn’t judge you
On looks, but on character.
On what you are made of.
To be shallow is one thing,
But empty is quite another..

Although in your case, Mr Glass
Your looks reveal your true humbled state,
your momentous worthlessness
And, yes, I can already hear
Your positive fucking spin on it;

“I’m full of potential,
I’m a blank canvas..
I’m free of attachments..
I’ve simplified my life…”

But in reality..

you are
just
an
empty
glass.

Aren’t you?

You don’t hear people wistfully,
Or romantically, wondering
If their significant other
is a glass totally empty
type of person, do you?
Or do you?

Even profoundly pessimistic
People have a half empty glass
As their mascot. Even them.
(A mascot, by the way, which is identical
to their more optimistic opposites).

A container is what you are,
Mr Glass. I would say nothing more,
Nothing less.
But a container containing
Nothing is most definitely less
Than a container.

To be defined by ones intended
purpose and then remain redundant,
That is true failure.
But failure for which I alone
Must take responsibility for.

I have left you unfilled,
High and dry,
And empty.
I have done this to you.

Temporarily.

A mooring perhaps, and held..

Entangled, knotted like rope

Gypsy lines on your palm find mine

We grip

Fingers as roots seek water

Cracking concrete

Destabilising buildings

Knuckle and joints weave until whole

Just this now

Just one spidery smooth lock remains

As blocks of tower topple

And new worlds grow.

The breezy bush distracted us

Made her break her apple green stare

And look away to the pavement

To the beat of my feet

Crisp salad leaves crunched my wet fork

Whilst the check of the tablecloth

Engulfed the wine bottle in squares

And the metred beat froze

Time is no match for a redhead

Her red rhythm leaps like scared deer

While time ticks regular like rain

And the beat carries on

A clink of glass returns her stare

Less appley than before, more pear

Bright sunshine helps her pierce my mind

I drop the beat this time

Lover’s lunches in clockwork fights

Both restricted and protected

By fellow diners who listen

To our out of time beat

This pounded meat

Bruise-veined and scarred

Caged in red white bone

I butcher it to feel

Scar it to remember

Untwist its bloody tendered weave

And tear it once again

Pain or perfection?

I raise a bottle to the pain.

The dull ache tightly clamps the rusty

Blunt blade of connection.

Hold fast if you like.

But the slow pull will always win.

Serrated edges create their own crimson exit

Faster now.

A dizzy agony of goodbye frees the mottled sword.

Frees me.

I remember now, how to stitch.

How to mend.

How to prepare this scarred pounded meat

For another cook.