Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Head In The Clouds

Head in the clouds,
kept clear of the Earth’s echoes,
all the things that I cannot face fall away when I wander the halls of heaven.
I have picked out the poppies for my graveside,
gracefully gazing at my name and a list of accolades on the sandstone.
I’ve been living for my last days longer than I have been breathing.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Here Lies That Sad Girl From The Internet

Where will the statue of me reside?

When I am a pile of bones in the ground,

rarely recalled by my son,

who has his own life to lead,

and manages to make it back on February 1st,

with roses and poppies to place on a headstone,

where I am identified as a wife and a mother who tried her best,

and a sad girl who fell apart on stage every night for the little time she graced the planet with her presence.

I like to think there will be a statue,

in some town centre,

where I meant a lot to people,

because I wasn’t a slave trader,

or a coloniser,

just a poet and a pop singer,

who liked to pretend she was special,

so labelled herself as “Alternative”.

I can see her,

sometimes,

but I can never picture where she ends up,

because in the flesh,

I don’t know where I belong,

so I don’t know where to set myself in stone.

I will be buried in Barcelona,

but she and I have not shared sunsets and moonlit moments for quite some time,

so I often wonder if she has forgotten me,

grown less fond of me,

can’t consider herself a home to me,

and so I consider if I will be Dartford’s favourite daughter instead,

claiming Kent,

not by birth,

but by sticking around,

drawing out my residence like Charles Dickens,

growing wild and memorable around the ankles of the county,

becoming beloved by the garden of England.

There’s always London,

of course.

Everyone can go home to London.

That’s the beauty of it,

because London doesn’t care how you got there,

it just cares that you stay,

and that you buy your lunch at Pret,

so maybe I’ll buy my lunch at Pret,

long enough for them to tear down some crumbling, unappealing old man,

and remember me instead.

Posted in Blog

Gwen

You always took too long to say goodbye.

You were famous for it,

for the frustration of people who found themselves in your web,

watching you spin another conversation,

from the thin promise of “I’m gonna let you go.”

Crossed legs,

crossed eyes,

as you crept into monologues,

about that woman down the shop,

that nobody knows,

but you,

but we are expected to,

because you want to tell us an anecdote,

that could probably wait.

Nowadays, I wait,

for a call that never comes,

thinking fondly of the long goodbyes,

trying to force them over the final moments,

when I lay alone in bed,

midday,

and someone called quickly,

to say that it was all over.

For the first time,

the final time,

you said goodbye too quickly,

the one time I wanted you to take too long,

you couldn’t stay,

fading from the scene,

from a hospital bed to heaven,

as I listened to your favourite song,

again and again,

unable to say goodbye as quickly as you finally could.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Cowboy Films

A myriad of matriarchs surround the stereo,

someone is making sandwiches,

that nobody will taste,

but will eat,

out of habit,

and politeness.

I pull down my dress,

aiming for knees,

I will never reach,

wondering what you would think of me,

if you weren’t obliged,

by family ties,

to love me.

Generations span the room,

holding hands,

handing out tissues,

swapping stories,

celebrating through the sad exchange of pleasantries,

and drinks.

I’m thinking again,

about myself,

and what you thought.

It has suddenly struck me,

that I don’t really know you at all,

though I do not know a year of my life,

without you.

I take a sandwich,

subtly sending it to it’s doom,

at the bottom of the kitchen bin.

Your old flat is overcrowded,

by grief,

the air is thick and lonely,

and I wonder if I’ll ever stop wondering,

why I left it too late,

to sit with you,

cross legged,

by your chair,

watching cowboy films,

with sandwiches.