Tag Archives: memories

Rust

A slight metallic taste on your skin
in the sweat of your body after sex
took me back in my sleep to the docks
and the inspiration of ships and deep water.
You were with me there, a shadowy figure,
and you led me to where she stood
watching a single-stacker tying up, absent,
eyes fixed on the waterline and the greasy trickle of a bilge.
We didn’t speak, just watched as the elegant iron
rusted slowly in the corruscating sea, rotting
as our love did, beneath sight and out of mind until,
it’s back broken, it sank in some deep.

Waking in the night, I didn’t know what to say.
I doubted you had spoken, knew she wouldn’t listen.
An ocean floor lay about that dark room
and somewhere far above a bell rang, beyond my hearing.

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Winter in Suburbia

Past, present, future commingle in this

uncertain weather, dull at dawn,

spats of rain like chaffinches in the bush,

there one moment, gone the next, wind

waking dead weeds, the

threat of snow without the

glee of children, late and

unexpected sunset, startling stars,

silence approaching midnight as the

dryer switches off,

static making sheets

dance like spectres.

Time is Relatives

Time is relatives:

children pupate into

moths or butterflies; a

sister begins to ache and

sicken; brothers-in-law

die one by one;

parents long gone leave

vague memories of the

longer gone,

black and white,

beckoning us into the

colourless pool of time.

The Kiss

The kiss, the wrestle of tongues,

seems uniquely human, the

need to explore that new person’s

mouth more intimate, more

intense than all those

further fumblings.

The Flotsam Trail of Memory

I love because I love—

there is no other reason, and

reasoning cannot

undo love, with all its

tethers and tendrils, its

flotsam trail of memory

from faded photograph via

forgotten pleasures to the

cold text with its cursor

blinking in time with my heart

in a dark, emptied house.

Pre-Tanned Bodies

With the first hint of sun, the

girls with pre-tanned bodies

parade in as little as possible, their

tattoos looking ill-advised

long before they regret being

advertising hoardings for men already

making other plans, their names just

tags on dilapidated trains or

abandoned buildings, whilst

strutting through the streets, they

brush past un-inked people with

hearts on their sleeves and

never notice.

B-roads/M20/M25/A1/B-roads

It’s white-van Hell even at dawn,

but then 9-to-5 long ago

lost its meaning as

prices pushed people further and

further from work, wives

working for Gas Board or

gas bill, children texted, Skyped,

rarely seen except at weekends when the

phone still rings with demands and

threats, so I understand if you

cut me up, tailgate me, want me to

get out of the fucking way, so you can

get where you are going and

get back, hating that after 9,

after the school-run,

King Prius rules in Troy-Town.

Rumours of Comets

The Moon heard the rumours as she stared at the

amusing blue-green bauble that

endlessly revolved in her sky, sending

puny gee-gaws that she barely felt, and the

thought of comets coming excited her

dry crust, still bearing the livid bruises of the

poundings she’d endured in her youth that made her

groan and tremble and ejaculate great

gouts of her soul, times she now missed, playing

seventh fiddle to that great manwhore Sun who

always got all the best action, but she’d been a

player once, a good-time, go-to girl so maybe if she

shone alluringly, she could prove

even as a mature woman that she could still

pull the cosmic best, get what she needed, that

orgasmically wet cosmic seed.

 

White Noise

Each flake absorbs one

microdecibel of sound

squeezing the air silent

all the botheration

compressed by coldness into

white noise released

distortedly in the

sharp crunch of a

well-shod foot.

 

Chiromancy

The spackle of snow on the hills reveals the

ribs and sinews beneath the green flesh, the

lines of life and heart, the

whorls and ridges of

Earth’s bare body

dusted like a fingerprint.

Milly Schmidt

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