Nothing of me that did not fade. Head down from cloud with blades in hair. Limbs barbed with pain. Hands crudely carved and not plugged in. Eyes sport a coat of Vaseline. Memory is holed up in a bur.
Flame-throwing skirt adjusts to clothes rail smoulder-mode. Harangues the tired one in viperous tones. Call this vernacular? If ears could bolt…
Practice run for bigger things? Naaaa. Made the most? Ta. Tiny though, and all ties cut.
Clothes were chosen for horizontal zing (a sofa awaited); colours for luck, bottom up: red, yellow, purple, petrol blue. Textlings and fervour too shone in vivid hues. Whenever I’m out (usually escorted by one of the lovely M.s), I push presence to the hilt. The ship is sinking! This old salt has half a spell’s grace and will return to ghostliness; not nailed to the mast though, just to the mattress until further notice.
I’d long looked forward to Palewell Press Mini Book Fest – a rare opportunity to read my work, to meet and listen to other poets. Fatigue left slivers of recall only, instants illuminated as if a match had been struck in the dark, of a bard’s wide gestures, arcanely numbered verse, poems spoken for an absent author, a little conversation. I know I was happy. Delights were shared.
In the evening, head brimming with naught, I heard fireworks. Guy Fawkes Night. Body was churning with pain. In the unlit room my yellow skirt glowed like a flame.
I wrote a brief essay on Chronic Illness and Confidence for the Chronic Illness Inclusion Project. For text and audio please click here.