Sunday 24 May 2015

Dead Rabbit Hopes

He stands; stretches bone, muscle, tendon. Shakes out the weariness. The day is dawning and he has yet to sleep. His mouth is like sandpaper; a drink and breakfast before the light spreads slowly across his garden. One foot, two feet. Slips on the dis-coloured linoleum, sticky and peeling at the corners. Dry cereal, like chewing thumbtacks (the milk has gone off again). Silently wishes he could take pictures of how the birds sound this morning so he could remember forever. How can he paint the sudden contentment, the odd lightness of soul that fills him now as the warmth from the water heater creeps through the thawing cold of his nose, his toes. And yet, even as summer multiplies around him and he builds up castles of conversation between himself and the first bumblebee of a forgotten season, he finds himself homesick for somewhere that doesn’t exist. Bones aching under the strain of domestication, he longs for a new place, a fresh wind on his back and a new warmth on his skin. He can’t sleep, he can’t blink, racing on sore feet through suburbia, trapped in amongst the little blue-doored garages and picket fences, the houses lining up 12345 12345 12345 with their driveways and neat gardens; soldiers belted, buckled, standing tall and ready for war with hot breath boiling from their chimneys, unaware of the lives fostered within their squat brick bellies.
He has been going through the motions of this ordinary life for years and years, all the days blending into one as he spends his nights tossing and turning in towers of bed sheets. In the endeavour to have a quiet life he has had to overcome many obstacles, knowing that residing within a rich and yet simplistic life requires monumental effort and a monastic strictness that he doesn’t have the energy to maintain.
He reduces each day to a series of thoughts.
On Mondays he hides from the sun and thinks about dying. Death inspires him like a dog inspires a rabbit.
Tuesdays are less introspective. He listens to sad music in the morning, walks the length of the garden a few times. Gets confused and a little disheartened at the state of the world.
Every Wednesday is yoga in the morning and then a cocktail of tai chi and meditation to calm his soul (it doesn’t help). He drinks multiple cups of camomile tea, takes a trip to the doctor and then spends countless hours staring at the sky hoping for something to happen.
His Thursdays start early so he can sit by the window and see the world bloom. He then wanders without direction for the rest of the day, maybe watches The Karate Kid for inspiration.
On Fridays he walks five miles into town, spends minimal amounts of money and then walks the five miles back. Gets home exhausted, drained from human interaction. He might let himself cry for the first time since the Friday before.
Most Saturdays he goes to the museum down the street from his house as soon as the doors open, just to see things of eternal beauty and importance. He tells himself not to feel insignificant. He does anyway.
Sundays are sad. Slow, sweet, spent simply longing for the melancholy of Monday.
He has learned himself outside-in and discovered what he needs, what he wants. There has to be an order otherwise he might just cease to exist right here and now. How can he live a simple life if there is no order? He assumes that anyone who would keep his company is, at the very least, moderately troubled. Who would there be anyway, when his is a universe of one? Only her. She is the only one he has allowed to permeate his thick skin and settle into his bones.
Truly this is a city of magpies, a parallel universe of chaotic order; each observation a note in a book three-quarters full. He is sovereign of a sorry state, reaching out in the dark and saying hello, I am here, with hands ready to hold yours. He shoots up still prayers into the dawning sky. Without winds to carry them they fall like empty shells on a pebble beach – listen carefully – see how the sounds within reveal how sea and sky are but microcosms of something other, still obeying unbreakable patterns of a higher order. He knows there is much to think of, but instead he crosses his fingers that the tumble dryer will work today.
He cannot help but smile, for the first time in what feels like forever. The day is munificent and he is endlessly small. Minutes pass in silence as he stands with his face to the sky. He loves her, still. After all this time. The swans spill the seasons from the river and he doesn’t move, just stays squinting, pointing one finger to the sky. He forgets what he’s even complaining for. This world is lovely and good; he wants to explore every murmur it makes. The rest of humanity can breathe and all he can think of is sending letters and abandoning work and having all the time in the world to be alone. He could swear that he has been in this place for a thousand lifetimes. He knows that rebellion is arbitrary and wishes he’d had enough time for it; for gentle acid trips and drinking under the stars with bad influences. Maybe he knows too much to mindlessly rebel against nothing; he already knows he is not a sheep but a galaxy, carrying the mountains with him wherever he goes. He is like the pathway of stars doubling back from dreamland towards the little boy he used to be, painting in a tiny, messy studio, then the young art school brat striding down the cobbled high street with a cigarette hanging from chapped lips, now a middle-aged man with thermal socks, creaking bones, a patchy beard, sensible shoes.
There is history in the rooms of his house, in the bones of every single being; the history of the here and now and all the moments in life. When he presses down on his eyelids so hard he sees stars, he cannot help but remember the bones underneath his fingers, holding him together. All too aware that every human is the same inside the shroud of their skin, he remains conscious that he is too sentimental (after all, his skin and bones are just a rental) and that the eternity of his life is wearing him down. He is so very tired. He wishes for the thousandth time that sleep would take him softly and allow him to rest. He is holding up the moon on his shoulders and the weight makes him shake; he is too afraid of eternity to speak and he will never understand why not a force on earth can stop the trembling of his hands. When Atlas shrugged, he dropped the sky on his toes, smashing the bones to dust. If a titan can be crushed by clouds, it is not a surprise then that he is made undone by the memory of the way sunlight hit her cheekbone in the mornings; the dust dancing and settling in hair, on ear, lip.
He is forever alongside the boys in jumpers on skateboards from schools and autumn leaves fallen right across mid-afternoon, blazing on about how cultural language is an operating system; a simple interface rendered listless and feeble when tested with divinity or a true understanding of the human condition. He never did understand the duality of art and reality. Living a life and treating it as such, he cajoles his talent with discomfort and a strict lack of abandon and divinely decreed artistry. Between the spires and rolling rooftops of the white city bathed in orange English lamplight he casts only one shadow, for she is not beside but within him. He longs for the infinite sadness of London and the folds of the mattress where her shape lies. He loves her so fiercely that it is as if he wants to consume her, wearing down the sandpaper roughness of his bones on her skin. He remembers thinking about wanting to take romantic walks up her arms with his chapped lips and 4am stubble, sneaking hipflasks of moonshine for a picnic on the slope of her neck, or lay still under the stars somewhere in the dip at the small of her back. He felt a sort of wanderlust for the city of her. What harm can it do to hope?
He tries not to think of her. He knows she is why he can’t sleep; imagining her fitting into London with an ease he never attained pains him. When he’s there all he does is cry and write about birds and infinity and wonderland. Here, he is happier. Not happy, but comfortable in his skin at least. Hidden in every moment is the promise of a thousand more slow dances under streetlamps with the rain pouring down. And even though he feels like his life still has yet to begin and he cannot hear the music, he is learning to dance right here on the sticky, peeling linoleum of his kitchen floor. He thinks to himself (as he has done every morning of every day for the last 9,496 days) that maybe tonight he will finally sleep. 

-g.m

Thursday 25 December 2014

fresh, clean, and utterly distracted

a poem for a human with magic inside them.

you are the eighth wonder of the world;
a paragon of humanity and beauty.
I can just imagine you, 
on the day the world ends, 
kissing the raindrops and laughing in the face of the stars.
you are made of such magnificence.
The atoms of you have seen such fantastic things.
I bet you spent a life time in Atlantis, skimming stones and swimming with sharks.
I think as well you must have been a star for a long long long time: 
it is the only way you could shine so well now.
In former lives you traversed space and time and sea and sky. 
you have seen the universe and yet,
here you are now.
I am so glad.

your soul is akin to a tiny galaxy growing and changing under your skin. 
you must remember that there are stars going super novae
and planets being knocked off their axis when you despair...
oh, but when you smile...that's when the magic inside you comes out to play.
sparks of light dance across your spirit, 
healing the holes and the barely-remembered ache of tears.
 infinities are born of your fingertips and whatever you touch turns to gold.

you are doing so beautifully, child. 
you are a product of eternity, and you bear the weight of a thousand lives with such grace, although I know they must be heavy.
so pause.
breathe.
allow the worlds inside you time to grow. 
silence your demons. smile, laugh, stay alive.

the eighth wonder, darling. you really are.

-g.m

____________________________________________________________________
some context:
this is for a human being i only know over the internet. this is their christmas present
i hope they have the most glorious time during the festive season, god knows they deserve it.

much love

x






Wednesday 24 September 2014

I'm drunk, but you're still beautiful.

I looked at you in a new way today.
Yes, you in the mirror.
I saw you and I didn't mind. I thought maybe
it would be okay to spend forever with you,
because I don't mind being in your skin anymore.
I don't mind the freckles on the small of your back
or the way stretch marks lattice your thighs.
I have grown to love that little nose and your wonky eyebrows.
I am beginning to find beauty in your shape,
the curve of your hip, and the sway of your waist,
your round knees and worn hands.
There have been days
when I have found you insufferable
and I have wished more than anything
to be someone altogether new;
brighter, funnier, with a whiter smile and happier eyes.
But now I am re-learning the topography of your body with a more open mind,
seeing, perhaps, what other people see.
I can see the sparkle in your eyes and how amazing you look when you are passionate about something.
I love the way your hands animate everything you say and how you cover your mouth when you smile, as if you know that your grin is a weapon at your disposal.
I have learned that no one else needs to love you for you to love yourself. Loving yourself is acceptable,
as is finding glory in how lovely the lines on your hands are.
I may have had too much to drink,
but in the morning I will be sober and you will be the same.
You'll still be beautiful,
and I will still be able to see you in the mirror.

-g.m

___________________________________________________
some context:

loving yourself is important. you don't have to, of course. if your body causes you distress or dysphoria, then it can be incredibly difficult to feel good in your skin.
i just want you to know that you are ALLOWED to love yourself.
it's a journey we all have to take on and it doesn't happen over night, but the body is a work of art. whether you are tall or short or fat or thin or have broad shoulders and little hips or whatEVER, you are endlessly and infinitely beautiful.

much love

x

Friday 11 July 2014

Don't Think So Much

You are minimal-
the sum of every experience.
Your life has made you who you are.
The first time you kissed her
made you brave, and
the second time made you strong.
Leaving everything to chance
has helped you see
real infinity.
Document each day
in the lines of your face;
make your own little mark on your patch of earth.
Lay still;
quiet.
Breathe.
Breathe in the colourful air
and the fresh showers of rain.
See light in the little things once more. Empathise.
Start anew every day.
Tears won't fall. Laughter will spill out of the lines of an ordinary life.
You will split the seams
of expectation.
Sleep with your thoughts, dance with your dreams;
hold a courtship of favour that won't end in disappointment.
Feel endlessness stretch around your skin
and trust (in yourself, in those wiser)
that you are where you're meant to be.
Take responsibility;
be a force for change.
be genuine, and choose
to live life happily.


-g.m

(dedicated to Ma, Dave and Roger)
_________________________________________________
some context:

I wrote this whilst on the phone to my mother. I've had a really rough time recently and she is very good at saying all the right things. Every day I'm being inspired by new things that I used to find hard to see; love from friends, early morning sunrises and the simplicity of knowing that you are in control of your life. I am being newly inspired by living simply and loving and doing.

I'd like to thank so many people for this new happy mindset, but I suppose most prominent among these people are my Mother, for being my Ma (no matter how difficult that job proves to be) Dave Green, for always being up for a chat and being the most supportive human being I've ever met, and Roger Wyatt (along with everyone else from Harbour) for welcoming me into their community with no questions asked, and for always being friendly, supportive and understanding.
Thank you to all my new friends from uni for so quickly coming to feel like family and all my old friends from Cambridge for not forgetting about me. Please just keep on doing what you're doing. Thank you to everyone who I've been in contact with for the past ten months. Even negative input has changed who I am and helped me to be in the position I am in now. My life might not be perfect, but I am much happier with every coming day. I am being careful to try and cut out as many negative influences as possible, and I am doing so much better than I was even just a few weeks ago.

blah. sentimentality!

happy poems! they exist!

much love

x

Saturday 5 July 2014

someone to be excellent to

"I love you."

A pause, to catch my breath.
For feelings to settle, for words well-meant to sink in.

"Can I kiss you?"

Words falling hot and sticky from warm lips.

"I don't know, can you?"

Laughter. A gentle punch on the shoulder.

And then the kissing;
softly tender.

a nudge of noses,
a bump of teeth,
chapped lips briefly brushing.

A smile.
A feather light breath on sunburned skin.
Traipsing home
with grubby knees,
torn dungarees,
a bucket of tadpoles
and a love
that lifted heavy hearts and tired eyes.

Another pause; this time to ruminate on the idea of being young,
here and now,
and so simply in love.

We are all just searching for someone to be excellent to.





-g.m
____________________________________________________
some context:

the idea is that this poem works as one poem but also as two different ones. The poem in normal type is about a first kiss, and the poem in italics is about a young love, and the last line in the centre is supposed to tie them both together.

let me know what you think about the format; i tried it in a few different ways!

i tried to write a happy poem and i suppose this is almost there.
i don't know. it's warm and i'm tired.

much love

x

Monday 30 June 2014

on our London love

Your things look so fine
taking up the space next to mine
in this purgatory we've made ours.
We co-habit quite contently,
(mostly)
lining the shelves with our possessions;
photo frames gathering lived-in apathy and dust,
the box sets of classic hardback books that we’ll never have time to read.
Against the skirting board leans your guitar with no strings
and your skateboard with the broken back wheel.
Your films and my records the only things we touch,
MGMT and oh baby that Electric Feel.
A city-scape of empty wine bottles on the windowsill
with the pitiful sunlight glinting through
washes our room in shades of green;
our Atlantis
(lost to the world, and even to us)

We thought once that it might be romantic.
Our little slice of limbo.
Tiny transient flat;
London,
lonely.
One night you got drunk and used my lipstick
to write our names on the wall;
your scrawling, greedy hands
reminding me that this place belonged to us.
(as if I could forget)
Now the romance is dead and we still live on,
no blinds on the windows or sheets on the bed,
doors held open with yellowed copies of books re-read too many times.
We learn and re-learn the topography of each other,
trying to rediscover our wanderlust, to no avail. Now, we’d rather find ourselves
in the bottom of vodka bottles
than in each other.
And yet, I wouldn't want to drink myself into oblivion with anyone but you,
or anywhere but here.


-g.m

____________________________________________________________
some context:

I've never shared a flat in London with anybody but I wrote a poem about it anyway.

much love

x

Saturday 31 May 2014

Human

You and I
have been apart so long
that it feels strange to once again be in your company.
You stare,
and it feels like a strangers gaze.
The arpeggios of your voice seem unfamiliar,
the dimple on one side of your cheek stolen from some other life.
Your hand brushes mine over the table top
and we blush,
laugh,
fumble around the contact with sweaty palms
until you grip my fingertips firmly,
smiling as your words
trip
past your tongue and through your chapped lips.

I think I forgot your imperfections in the time whilst you were away chasing your dreams.
I forgot the little chip in your front tooth
and that your eyes sit just a little too close together.
In my head I pictured you differently
without the gap in your eyelashes and the crack in your voice when you talk about home.
I omitted the things I loved the most like the freckles that go all the way down your neck and across your collarbone
and your laugh which changes every time.
I forgot that I loved you for just how human you were


-g.m
____________________________________________________________
some context:

a happy thing.
just for you.
you're welcome, I guess.

much love

x