To Three Past Imperfect Tense Proper Nouns

A screen of smoke separates
all of you
from
where I stand now
from
all those years of holding
hands and holding
each breath in.

You stand in a column, guarded
by dogs let loose from my hatred.
Our distance shows
all the scars, on both sides
drawn as lines of control,
as set reminders of the hurt we lived.

If I ever could
walk across each bridge I've broken,
I'd mend the cracks in my heart
that let each of you in
each and every time.

There is something in the air as the year ends
a finality, a closure,
a space filled up with
the earth of each year,
each december, each christmas,
each ex-cruciating agony.

Curses are not enough to cover you.
I deny you your December burials.
I deny you peace and forgiveness.
You.
And You.
And especially You.

Yours
Forever Never.

What happened...

There is little or no light in this room
How could this happen?
I miss a foreign land
How could I?
And yet, I do.
I miss the anonymity, the ordinariness
with which we lived.
How no one ever questioned
my cigarettes
my cleavage
or even who I was
and how I was
related to you.
There was no sin
no wrong in what
we did.
The indifference was addictive
and even desirable.

Here
the neighbours persist
and insist
through their gaze
how my body
my cigarettes
actually belong to them.
Could that really happen?
And yes, it does.

Poetry

The words are Elements
inhabiting us
for the sake of expression.
They shape themselves
into screams and melodies –
Primal upheaval –
concentrated like acid
they burn and scar,
strip off the skin
and reveal the hidden core.

It is delicate –
balancing them along
coils of brains
and cells of nerves
until they reach
tips of fingers
and clothe the blankness
of pages in wait.

I struggle –
to hold them in shape
to let them flow.

Childbirth must be less intellectual

Celebrity

I can write
throughout this night,
without rest
without fail.
Failure is reserved for actions
unperformed
and ignored.
Like the sounding bell
of the road
like the miracle
never foretold.

I dream of success,
pretend to be a princess,
with the world at my tiny feet.
The Fabulous Life lived
to the hilt.
Though it never takes shape in actuality
Nor ever will.

Life has always been
a dream
whether awake
or asleep.
The world, my audience-
it attends
and extracts
performances
of a lifetime.
Acts of resilience
Acts of death
Acts of power
Act in every breath
Every move, every phase.

Now, I am in rehab,
crying over being unreal
But that is not a deal.
A performance - even this.


This was in response to some of my favourite newsmakers - female actors, musicians - ending up in rehab for abuse of substance, emotions and the rest.