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TRANSITIONAL PHOTOGRAPHS

I
The smoke curls round my fingers
Out of time with the ticks
And the gargles of the baby swans -
The intestines of their dead mother
Their only source of survival.
Once I saw three children
The eldest, a girl, fourteen,
She was holding a paper umbrella
It disintegrated in the rain and her hair got wet
Her brother was three
and his white hair reflected the sunlight into my eyes
so I had to turn away
and when I turned back they were gone
I never noticed the other child
So I’ve painted a picture of them
It’s black and smudged
And I call it something like ‘failure’.
I don’t like the title but it’s the only word I remember the meaning of.

II
It’s like that sensation you get when you stare at a bright light for the countdown to a power cut.
Like sun spots in your vision then absolute darkness.
It’s like shaking the clammy hand of the guy who’s sleeping with your ex girlfriend.
Or maybe I remember it wrong?
The child was grey.
Either his hair or his eyes were brown
But his skin was entirely grey.
I’m guessing hyperthermia or the Chernobyl.
CHA-KNOB-ALL.
I could count his strands of hair on one hand.
His pulse came less frequently than... (insert metaphor)
His skin so taught, you could make out the marble of his bones.
For some reason I said yes when he asked to sleep with me.
I was half aware he was HIV positive
But the other half of me didn’t care.
The other third was indifferent.
And the remaining quarter felt too much guilt to turn down the body of a child who would most likely be dead within the next seventy-two hours.

III
It’s been a week of horrible nights and hangovers.
£180 worth of education wasted.
Perfect days spent for free.
Lifeless bodies. Bloodless limbs.
Watching clocks from 5.25 to 5.26
Then just wishing you were alive to see 5.24.
But your head was somewhere in that lamp
Or in the fireplace.
Or your eyes were lost someplace in that mirror –
The one that shows you the reflection of a cancer ridden widow.
An empty entity of hollow timber and deflated helium balloons.
If I put a wooden spoon between my teeth now,
By 5.36 I’d be left holding a wooden handle
And stood above a pile of blood, ivory and sawdust.
It’s because I’m nervous, and when I’m nervous I grind my teeth.
The acupuncturist asked me to stop.
I should have listened.
It’s constantly taking my jaw out of line.

albmrtwrk

text
shoelaces tied round our necks to make necklaces
small children in pots of boiling water
the darkness getting lighter and lighter
until i cannot be afraid any more
petals from month old roses
like the leaves of a
rotting
butterfly
small doses of poison in every mouthful
i hold your hand but i have to let go
my cold blooded skin smokes
on each point of
contact
waxy calluses scratch the cheeks of all the baby's
faces i stroke
i hold a cigarette now
and will hold it forever
i don't smoke
but i like people to think i
do
and i like the yellow fingertips
i hold
my head
underwater
until i can no longer think any more.

a dream i dreamt up

Last night I had my first dream since the turn of the millennium...

Four Czech ladies were sat beneath a lamppost, drinking three day old filter coffee and pouring the remnants of their stomach acid down a drain. Black children from all around used intelligent straws to slurp the, now frothy plasma from the sewers. The straws turned to leeches that found their way back to the rotting corpses of the anorexic Czechs (through a series of mole holes and underground tunnels) and latched themselves onto the nipples, quenching their thirst with the urine that spilt.

Three men came from the local tavern;
• The first was below five feet and was dressed all in black, save for one navy shoelace.
• The second man was nothing more than a wax mannequin.
• The final man was wearing nothing but a shabby grey beard wrapped around his torso. Wound so tightly that it was slicing his stomach like a hoard of baby paper cuts.

The men walked quickly then slowly in sporadic bursts and in complete unison. With each strike of heel to pavement, a wild loop of violin would ring. It wouldn’t echo – nothing ever does.

The men didn’t disappear, rather, they never existed.

Instead, the street was filled with bloodstained pigeon feathers.

The rain poured the remains of an Asian miscarriage.

A bullfrog sat atop a NatWest bank, frantically using his tongue to sweep the pale foetuses from the roadside, in a race to have the streets clean by rush hour. He succeeded with plenty of time to spare and in celebration burst open into fireworks and confetti. The other reptiles gawped in admiration of their uncle. He’s sat at God’s right side now, on Jesus’ lap.

I wonder if Jesus has a boner?

I ran to the forest for that final cigarette
I finished it, then sat alone with Pedro, the camera
And an imported, Dutch lager
5%
£1.59
I’m looking at the oldest house,
The one they’re attempting to make look the newest
I see that flock of birds flying over the ghost of a popular boot sale
I feel guilty
They may mistake my fag butt for a worm
But I don’t pick it up. I’m too lazy.
Besides, my conscience will be clear, I’ll never even know if I took a life. And if I’m unaware, the death is almost irrelevant.
There is a leaf trapped in the barbed wire
And it nods and shakes in the breeze.
The most in-decisive leaf I’ve ever seen.
I keep asking it the same question on repeat
But its answer changes depending on the direction of the wind.
“If all that’s left is duty,
I’m falling on my sword...”
I can see a tractor coming closer and I’m starting to get scared.
I came here to be alone, and now there’s another man.
I wish I took a photo of the tranquillity,
Instead I just photographed the past.
When it’s developed, I’ll spend time, holding the relic of what can never happen again.
If I sit here long enough I’ll just become part of the backdrop.
Opposite the tangled leaf and beside the butt.
Birds will eat the ivy from my eyes
And my heart will only rumble when the wind blows.
The old lady will walk past me in silence and wonder why she’d never noticed me before
And I’ll just frown forever
Because it’s always too sunny to smile.