Strange Famous

The old thread I had looks to be archived, so I'll start this

19.03.11

Her Easter dress, his broken watch, laid mixed up in the chair
That stood itself beside the unmade catalouge bed
In which they did not cry, had never cried, either together
Or apart. Her own watch, which had never ceased to tell the time
Was at this very moment pulsing onwards, clasped in
His clumsy grey paw. He looks up at the wall, and then down again.
Something inside him seems to flex like the beat of a drum
Which someone is smashing about, and then not striking once, not at all.

Her stupid pink phone sat on top of some book he had never read.
It was the colour of a dead Barbie house, which had survived some kind of holocaust.
It rang once, and again, and then did not ring at all.
She lay curled up on the sofa, not even flinching. Not the second time.
In the background a radio, a sex song, a girl and a boy, autotuned and horny
She pulled herself upright, but did not stand up.
A half smile played across her face, but then she shrugged, let out a long breath, laid back down.
And the song carried on. It didnt care what she felt.

And later he walked up and down the long garden of his fathers house.
He started bitterly at the line of bare Poplar tree's in the middle distance
To his left. He clenched his fists at the crows, who beat their ugly
Path round and round. He toyed with the idea of tears
Would have welcome it probably, but nothing came
He kicked the air all the way back to the green house
And sat heavily on a used up compost bag

She was standing behind a familiar desk
This must have been, oh, six weeks later than before
When she gave a sudden start, felt a pang, even panic,
She had not expected: seeing that square, uncomfortable figure half limping
Down the corridor. But after only a second or two she must have noted
A different shade of brown hair, a straightness in the back, that was not quite familiar
She smiled to herself, then puffed out her cheeks. Take a deep breath. And pull a funny face

The placement of objects, the forces that pull them and push them
Together or apart. You could write a million words.
You could scatter with photographs the path
All the way from your home, to the place they buried the old woman.
The words would be sad, but aiming for hope, poignancy: reaching for something
That's just out of reach. Like a childhood memory, the first time you have one.
The very first time you realise it belongs to the past.
The photographs: in and out of focus, no gaudy colours, big landscapes, open spaces, broken down industrial sites:
All that kind of shit.

I can think of only two:
A stupid pink phone, the colour of a Barbie house, inside of a house thats burned down,
And only the doll house remaining.
Sitting on top of a book, beside this girl, who...
This girl who wears coats in the summer and complains that she's hot;
This girl who can juggle four balls at once, who can do simple card tricks,
Who can bend her elbows in this way you'd never seen in the flesh;
This girl who would kiss the frog, whether or not
She expected a prince

A still working watch, clenched in a heavy hand, which is scarred all up the side.
And each second that ticks by, is one second closer to the end of his life.
And he smiles at that, can't help but laugh at himself. The smile fades
But no tears. None yet. None still. He guesses he isnt the type.
A tin of beer sits in reach of his other hand, open but full
Slowly heating before the bright orange bars
Of this stupid fucking fake fire.

____


(as with most things I write, I dont even know if it qualifies as poetry. Its just how I felt just now when I decided to write it)

__________________
"Do not tell lies, and do not do what you hate,
for all things are plain in the sight of Heaven. For nothing
hidden will not become manifest, and nothing covered will remain
without being uncovered."

The Gospel of Thomas