Pig

Pig

This one is for the ass-grabbers.

The dick-rubbers and tit-tuggers.

It’s for the crotch rubbing, long-lookers

and the heavy breathing cat-callers.

It’s for the innuendos,

for the tongue-wagglers,

thigh-touchers and thong-snappers.

It’s for empty trains and nightclubs,

for dark streets and shit drunks

(and good ones).

It’s for overtime

and bus rides,

for local pubs

and chain ones.

It’s for social media

and solo runs,

building sites

and night clubs.

For office parties and dating sites,

for holidays

and hen nights.

It’s for close breathing

and heavy hugging,

wet kissing

testicle tugging.

It’s for the snap chatters,

the whats appers

the instagramers

and the emailers,

polluting our feeds

with dick pics.

It’s for the pokes and the pub jokes.

It’s for the sexts and blokes blokes.

It’s for good jobbers

and community titles.

It’s for local connections

and political hopers.

It’s for ‘it was only a bit of a laugh’

and ‘loosen up, love’

and ‘stuck up slag!’

‘It was just a bit of banter’

`She was asking for it`

‘Can’t take a joke?`

`She was all over him`

`She wanted it`

`She needed it`

`She loved it really`

`Attention seeker`

‘Stop crying love`

`Show us your tits.`

Strangled Love

lovers

 

Tonight I am ordering love.

reckless love.

 

Home wrecking, ass fucking love

 

Slapped face, nail biting, law breaking love

Phone slamming, blow snorting, neknominating love

Love that effects me

 

 

I want this love to take me to counselling

To fuck my relationships,

I want law breaking, hand tying love

Disrespecting love

Sick bed love

Life numbing love

That doesn’t relent

Over time

Ejected

She washes up

On the pavement

Like pockmarked glass

Penniless

And Godless

And nameless

To him

Worth only

The femininity underneath

The gray tracksuit bottoms.

He spits her

Opiate eyed

To the mercy

Of the street.

 

She is all blood

And tears

Alone and standing

Screaming something

About a home somewhere

To the trees.

 

We empty our pockets

Shamefully full

But its all we can offer

And it’s not enough.

She turns her head

Back to the car

And she fades from view

like a bruise

 

Firsts

 

School stole you from me
It stole us.

And a World that existed

to only us

has died.

Like all of time.

We no longer ride the seasons.
Or watch the sun travel
Across our valley
one day at a time.

Through the kitchen window
You’ll see only me now,
packing your little blue bag
and
Trying to sneak in bits of love
Wherever I can,
In words.
Or A wet kiss that’s wiped
From a bigger cheek
With a gloved hand,
Before I hand you over
To the railings.
And I’m alone again
In the crowd

The Boys
Left to wonder
If you will ever look back.

 

 

The bug

We are woken by the screams.

We run in two’s. Bare feet pounding

Over floor boards.

Pictures flashing

In our minds,

Of all the worsts.

We kick aside the remnants of last night

Crumpled towels and toy cars

Littered at our feet

Hands scrambling

like snakes, for the lights.

 

The smell hits us first

And we feel our breakfast, lunch, and dinner

Reappearing together.

But it’s got him first.

He’s standing up

Damp browed and wide eyed

Surrounded by his sickly creation.

In awe, at what his little body

Has produced.

 

And then come the words.

The shouts and the orders

And the questions

And the cries

And the struggle

of moving and handling and undressing

and washing away

and the cries.

And the cries

And the cries.

 

And together

We place him to bed

clean clothed and powdered

armed with tubs and tea towels

we never knew we had,

awaiting the next strike.

His little snores breaking through the silence.

In the night.

boysick

The Flicker of a Picture

We hold each other with our eyes. Him hanging over me as I lay back on the foam bed. The gel painting my skin cold while the nurse smiles.

Then we all turn together and face the screen.

In a moment, we become three.

His hand slips over mine. Our fingers lace, connecting us through bone. The nurse pushes down hard. Our shape comes to life in waves of white, no bigger than a whisker.

Twelve weeks and two days the nurse says.

And he turns his head from the screen. His hand trembles in mine

It’s not your fault I say

You didn’t choose this disease

She wipes the gel with a tissue that feels rough and I pull my top down to my waist.

No need to book another scan I say

And she prints me off a picture

That I know I can’t keep.

Creating

We sculpted your face

With whispers

Under covered duvets,

Wet cheeked with love

Dreaming of the day

You would be made.

Eyes peeked 

Through strands of damp hair

Bursting with love

And We knew Then,

That we were born 

to create.