We are all, works in progress.
Working towards progress.
Progressing towards work.
Working to progress it out,
to work it out.
Works in progress.
Progress, work.
Progress works!
Work progresses.
Working it.
Work It.
Werk.
Work.
Come Home
Both feet on the floor and the reality of my day starts.
I didn’t think it was going to be one of those days. I woke-up with so much energy, but then remember that you are not here. Where the fuck are you? It has been like what, three months? You have been gone for that long. Three bloody, long months.
My legs are like molasses. I take steps towards the bathroom, which seem to take me forever. Finally I arrive, to bask in the bliss of my first morning piss. I make my way to the kitchen, putting the kettle on, before turning-on my phone. Yes! I have messages from you. But, it’s the same old, same old – you’re having a good time, meeting loads of people, seeing loads of things, blah, blah. The standard bullshit. But you still haven’t answered my question, “when are you coming back? I miss you – things are lonely here without you xx”. I’ve asked it, over and over, with each message you send. And each time, I get no response.
Today is Tuesday, Shrink-Tuesday.
I hate the guy. Not the guy himself, I mustn’t over exaggerate. What I really hate, is the idea of seeing a shrink. I’m sure he’d be cool to go out and have a drink with, but as a shrink he sucks. All shrinks suck. I don’t even want to be here. I already know what’s wrong with me. This is the first time we’ve been apart in 15+ years and I’m feeling it, you know. I’m really feeling it. I miss you. I tell the shrink that I’ve received messages from you. I get that same flat look he always gives me. Interested, but not so interested. And each time, he asks me what you said, how I felt about it and what I replied. But this time, I’ve brought the phone. That excites him a little, I can see it in his face. He goes through the messages, and hands it back to me. ‘So how does her response make you feel?’ I want to punch him right, bang in his gob. The session’s over. I ask when he thinks he’ll sign me off to get back to work. I just need to something to do. Something to occupy my time. ‘We’ll see. Let’s talk about it next week.’
Tuesday turns into Wednesday; Wednesday into Thursday, and days, into days, into days. My daily routine continues. Wake, piss, coffee, check messages, remain idle. Saturday rolls around. Still no news from you. I have the gruesome twosome over for a visit – your mother and my mother. All they do is fuss, fuss, fuss. I’m not sure why they don’t think that I can’t manage the house on my own? I know you’ll be laughing at that when you read it. No really, they’re alright. I must admit, I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I’m glad to have their company. And, for the first time, I’m looking forward to Shrink-Tuesday. I realise that I’m not coping. I just need you back. We go for a ride. They both insist. We stop-off for a quick bite to eat at Bernies Café (you love that place). With lunch finished, your mother wants to visit your father’s grave. You know how much I hate cemeteries.
En route to the cemetery, and within twenty minutes we arrive. I want to stay in the car, but those two wont’ have it. ‘You came for fresh air.’ Fresh air yes; to walk among the dead, no – how creepy. They mean well, so I acquiesce. We arrive at your father’s grave. Mum and I, our arms intertwined, watch as your mother, after sitting down on her portable chair, places fresh flowers on his grave. Your mother is talking him, I can’t hear what she’s saying, but I can still tell that she misses him. Your mother’s done. I am more than ready to leave. As I turn to go, mum pulls me back, ‘Go on David, it would be such a waste if you didn’t say hello.’ I can hear your mum’s voice behind me ‘Hello Janine, we’ve come for a little visit. And look who I have with me? David. David’s come to visit you’. I hear your name, and I become paralysed. I want to run but I am unable to move. Mum is now standing in front of me, and like a mother with her child, she takes me in her arms, and slowly turns me around. My eyes are closed. I don’t want to see. But I know they can’t stay closed forever. I open my eyes, and it’s there. I can see it – the tombstone. Mum’s holding onto me, and all I can hear is my silence. Silence and my tears. There’s so much I want to say. But I can’t. It hurts so much, that I can’t speak. And what could I say that I’ve not said in the past 3 months? I miss you. Things are so lonely here without you. And I just want to know, when you’re coming back.
The Clock Will Run Out
Stop!
The clock will run out.
Tick-stop, toc-stop!
The clock will run out.
Minute-by-minute,
hour-by-hour,
days, weeks, months.
Stop!
The clock will run out.
Every beginning has its ending.
Every ending leading to a
Stop!
The clock
will run
out.
Tick…tick…
tick…tick…tic…k
Stop!
Toc…toc…toc…
to…c
Stop!
The clock will run….STOP!
A Story of Us
The story of us.
There is no story really. Well not of ‘us‘ at least. Not yet. I just liked that line and thought I’d use it to write. To write this. You spoke with me today. You pulled me into a conversation, but so terrified that my dirty little secret will be found out, I pull away. And, you weren’t alone. Who’s he? He is so goddamn good-looking! I see the way you look at him, and know I can’t compete. I’m so jealous, that I just want to peel away.
The story of you.
Do you know that you have the most engaging smile? I am sitting in the dark, thinking. That’s what I’m doing right now, sitting in the dark, thinking about your smile. It was not supposed to turn out this way. This was not my plan. You were meant to be forgotten. You were meant to be never minded. I know that smile, and knew you would never be mine. My smile now stolen, by him. Who was that guy? And, Jesus Christ, why is he so goddamn good-looking?!
The story of me.
I existed before you, you know. I’m almost sure I did. Before I saw that smile, before I heard that voice, before, I saw that…face. Before, before, before. Before I saw you, I had a pulse, I’m almost sure I did. Who is that guy? He’s tall, and so goddamn good-looking. And, with a goddamn fucking beard! I mean, come on! I too, have a beard. Doesn’t that count? I know, I know. I’m not so tall, and I know, I am not so goddamn good-looking. But, like him, but just like him, I have a beard.
And like him, and just like that guy, I now have A Story of Us.
Pure Poetry
Songs without music, is pure poetry.
Listen, can’t you hear the music I’m making?
The Calling
Without words,
there’d be no songs.
The Mortgage
He mortgaged his soul to the Devil,
to get nothing in return,
but the realisation,
he was nothing more,
but
Extra
Ordinary
Talk To Me
Did I ever tell you, the first time I saw you, I fell? In love?
That we were in the making for a year and a half – you just didn’t know it? That I stayed silent, keeping my emotions in check and that it seemed like forever, and even longer? That, for 1 year, 6 months, the voices in my head, time after time, gave me reasons? Reasons to stay silent? That, I finally plucked-up the courage, to say something? That… That… That….?
The first time I saw you, words I never heard before hummed in my head. Hummmmmmmm. The first time I saw you I wrote a first poem. And a second. And then, a third. And, with all those sweet humming words, I wrote a fourth, and have not stopped humming words since. But after 1.6 years, with all those letters, and with all those words, I didn’t even know how write out your name.
I thought the moon and stars rose in your eyes. I did. I still do.
Like so many times before, times which I know like the back of my hand, you walk into the room, you grab a coffee, and you sit down next to me. And, like the back of my hand, which I know so well, the voices tell me to stay silent. I do. Once again, we sit, side-by-side, silence in-between our space. But then I hear that hummmmmmmmm. Those sweet words, those sweet humming words start to fill my head. Build, build, build. Building until I have enough words to finally ask, ‘did I ever tell you, the first time I saw you I fell? In love?’
You smile that smile that I know like the back of my hand, and reply, ‘yes, that’s why I married you.’
Every Day A Little Death
I’m in the pub and You Can’t Buy Me Love comes on. I know I can’t.
I sit, nursing a glass of wine for maybe two or three hours. Brooding. Thinking. I remembered the other night, while in bed, I cried. Not knowing why, but I thought of you. No thought in particular. Just a momentary flash. Lying there in the dark, I welled-up for a second, saw you were there and then fell back asleep. And now, the wine now in my head tells me I was upset because I don’t miss you.
I don’t miss much these days.
Every Day A Little Death remembered in the pub.
I wanted you to think me a genius. But I opened my mouth, letting the words fall-out one by one and in the process became a fool. You tell me to ‘go to hell’ and all I can do is laugh, which causes you to laugh. We both know I’m in hell. I love you, and I tell you so. ‘Yeah I know,’ you say. You too, are in my hell.
We still make love as if it’s our first time. You hold me, touch and caress me as you always have, turning what I think is minutes into hours. I want it to never end. I awake the next day, look in your eyes and feel like a complete failure. You feel it too, my failure. My new day in hell starts, and you come with me – to keep me company.
Back from the pub.
You are sleeping. I watch you. An exercise I have performed many times before. I stand in the dark. Watching. Listening. To you. You are just so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. I well-up. What the fuck are you doing with me? I want you to go away and find yourself some happiness. I won’t miss you, you know. I won’t. I crawl into bed, failing miserably not to wake you. You roll-over to me, kissing my back and neck. ‘I love you.’
Kissing your hands, your beautiful hands, I reply, ‘Yeah I know.’
Legacy
When I am gone, people will read these letters I put together. Read all these letters that I put together to write words. Words put together to make sentences. The sentences put together to tell a story. Letters telling my story.
I will cheat death in the end.