Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Rochdale

Everybody thinks it’s all right,

because she was born bad,

if they tell themselves that enough times.

She changes before their eyes,

from a wide eyed child,

with dreams,

homework,

and a school tie her mother has to help her with,

to their evening entertainment,

because they talk a new image into their eyes,

they repeat it like a prayer,

predators chanting in a circle,

believing their magic is innocent.

They never ask her why,

she is near the night,

why she dares to venture into the darkness,

because they know the truth,

tarnishes their already jittering justification,

but,

it doesn’t matter.

It never matters.

They are good men,

if they say they are good men.

She is a slut,

if they say she’s a slut.

She came to them,

even when they spent months,

laying out a line of pebbles and promises,

easing her down a perilous path,

letting her get lost,

drunk on the idea that someone gives a damn,

before they stole from her,

as she slept,

but it’s still her fault,

because they say it is.

The court will free the devil,

if he wears a nice suit,

and they will hang her,

with the skirt she wore,

and a map of all the places she went,

even though she had no sense of direction,

and nobody expects a poor,

helpless grown man,

to say no,

because he is a good man,

if he says he is,

but she was born bad,

no matter how many times she said no.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Car Parks

There was red and blue,

in the air,

sirens singing,

as I stared up at you,

like you were an old friend,

an old memory,

a stabilising slap to the face,

among the chaotic commuters,

questioning officers,

about how they should get home,

and what they should do.

I had been worrying

about a press release,

getting to the cinema on time,

paying the council tax,

but then,

there you were,

staring down at me,

caught on the edge of the worst of life.

gravesend-car-park.jpg
Caught at the edge of today,

crawling across the concrete of the car park,

your weary arms are waiting,

done with holding you up,

for all the world to see,

saying

I still want to stay”

I watch them cling to the concrete,

whispering

But I don’t know if I can”

and I wish,

so hard,

that I could change your mind,

even though I don’t know you like that,

or, at all,

actually.

Car_park_in_Gravesend_(34164270003).jpg
I saw you live,

though,

led back from the edge of goodbye,

into the horizon,

towards help and hope,

as I,

and all the chaotic commuters cleared the road,

going back to little problems,

like press releases,

cinema dates,

council tax,

so we didn’t have to think of giant concrete car parks,

and their habit of stealing people,

to take them to the sky.



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