I pour myself a bath

in my new home I can leave the boulder at the door to wait with headlines til the morning. before bedtime I pour myself a bath. when I pinch my nose and sink under I leave my thoughts on the surface. concealed, the water holds me still. for as long as I can hold my breath I'm free. no demands or breathing. for a moment I forget myself and smile into abstraction. lost until forever ends. underwater; I can hide and not be found.

the microwave keeps ringing

every day wants to matter. we wake to meet demands as though they won't be back tomorrow. dreams all ending so (the same). eyes open just to close again. still I read the headlines like they'll tell me something different.

every day wants more. I just want to go to sleep.

the walls fold

without warning I'm rushed to leave my home by forces I don't understand. it all happens very fast. the walls fold out into empty plains before I look up from my phone. I sit in the grey, scrolling for places to go. squatters with bad teeth in windowless mansions, ghosts in rooms on your old street. my life slides neat into a suitcase just big enough to wrap myself in. I drag everything I own to foreign doors to find a home.

when I wake to yawns I'm running late for someone else's birthday. forfeit folding and the shower to find my suitcase stolen. I spiral in the hallway under epics on the ceiling. painted angels watch me weep. the loss feels monumental: anthology of scribbles, second-hand synthetics, every book I never read, my silver swan and armour, a mood ring. I cry by the piano for myself and nothing else.

the sky is grey and dry in the morning. I count the pictures on the wall until they matter less. 

another kind of kindness

after dinner

I close my eyes

excused from the day and the way things are

the traffic continues

dusk to death of darkness

with the morning

sometimes sunshine

always oxygen and sound to tear me out of dreams

from arms I can't reach

worlds that aren't

through days we'll never spend

forgotten for taxes

and other monsters in the fridge

allowances made

for promises that mattered once

to someone in the mirror

between films I forgot

and the war on my phone

apathy

or another kind of kindness

the kettle boils

I wait for rain and reason

pixels through windows

never here for long enough to warrant where we're going:

one foot in the stream

uphill

boulders and the empire pave tomorrow

into nothing

through the death of every dream.

science fiction

the rulers creep out of the shadows to wash their hands with words. we watch our idols do the same, rallying behind crowds as they trend. far safer for them now. heads of state pledge to recognise a country they bomb into oblivion. don't ask them where their money's going. it's a little soon, and isn't this enough? thank god they stand for peace. let the minutes note morality and pleas for gentle play. I watch my taxes decimate another hundred childhoods from my pillow. we scroll through the children's screams and carry on. always more to say about ourselves and other stuff. who needs science fiction now?

men talking

I start to spiral again in cinema five (row D). we're watching a shark movie in high resolution, returning to the big screen fifty years later. my friend bought tickets to take a girl but called things off a few days ago. I take her place though I'd rather watch something else. the film is easy enough to drift in and out of. men talking about and in the ocean, shark attacks at the beach, etc. I laugh at heavy accents and paper-thin diction.

at some point I lose track or will to follow the boat on the screen. there's a thought of life beyond the pictures and I remember the tasks that left me here. I take stock of expectations waiting at the door, ready to drown me like dreams I can't wake up from. and though I don't like the film I don't want to leave. would I be more willing with the sense to give the day less weight? I tell myself to watch the news and count the stars. try to get out of the way. the curse of self-importance can surely be unlearnt. who doesn't die waiting for proof that they matter?

another

ten years ago we celebrated your coming of age at the sushi train. it had been a school day. I think it rained on and off until the evening. someone would have made a cake, and we would have sang you happy birthday in the undercroft at recess. the girls would have given you jewellery or alcohol, something that would've cost money. most of them had part time jobs. I'd saved money cleaning the house for a copy of the new record from an artist we both liked. the album released on the same day. I remember running down into town at the sound of the bell, ahead of the rest of the group to follow through. you would have thanked me for the gift and given me a hug. but I don't remember that. I just remember rushing into the store, worried they'd have sold out by time I arrived. as though the music really mattered. 

we liked the one about the lady from the bible teaching how to dance. I think we spoke about dancing along in the audience. you passed before she came back to the antipodes. I saw her sing with other friends. they miss you too.

six years ago I took a train from London into a world I still remember. my heart leapt louder than my thoughts. I hauled my bag up an ancient lane to High Street and into a nightmare hotel. the lady at reception said she'd spent time in my home town. I found my room on the top floor of a crumbling afterthought that became home. twin single beds and a salmon pink ensuite. maroon carpet and a mini-fridge. a view of the new world from my balcony. maybe I washed my face. I definitely thought about staying inside. but I had no food and they were serving free pizza in the function room. I can't remember who I first saw or spoke to. the pizza tasted like cardboard. my head was spinning, the most anxious I had felt in years. but we took to High Street, down into the village centre for drinks. and though my roommate never showed, I woke to friends to share a home with.

today you turned twenty-eight. I think about ten years ago and wonder where you'd be if not for the car. would you have moved north as planned? would I still know you now? today I woke much older than we were back then. I shaved my face and checked the news. my rhythm is different now, and I worry what you'd think. I carry ghosts you bore before me, though I lack your drive to change. it rains a little on the ride home from rehearsals. another day further from the sound of your voice and the sushi restaurant. another year on the other side of a dream I still remember. a ribbon of cloud on the stream with some kind of meaning between.