Strange beds

 

Woke in so many strangers' hearts,

a bedsit here, a shared house there.

Anywhere the party flowed

when the night's demanding song

wished to continue.

Some moments of longing, as I was still

looking for something. Someone, to be.

 

Pills and smokes, thrills in warped views.

Dancing to life's tune, and loving it.

 

We sat playing guitars until

the sun greeted our hearts,

and the first song of dawn

always sang along with ours.

 

And I woke in so many strange beds.

 

And I longed to be in my own.

 

With my heart connected to someone special.

 

But the night's demented song

always sang on,

and I knew the lyrics

better than anyone.

For I lived the words,

I loved the verses,

but the chorus stung.

And I longed for

someone real. To listen

to my voice, just speaking.

 

For sex wasn't what drew me in.

Though I waded in its waters,

I wanted deeper oceans.

I could never swim with someone

I didn't feel connected to, as the buoyant

waves of my youth always knew

I wanted more. And as

night’s demisexual song

sang on, I knew,

and I’d keep holding on

until I feel connection

in a soul I can call home.

Sign

 

I've always found signs

so hard to read.

Trying to understand

the way a face aligns, the way it leans,

or how eyes glance,

did that one mean happy,

or was that the sarcastic kind?

Trying to decipher

the way lips raise to space,

or fall to the feet,

just leaves me dazed.

In need of a dictionary.

Or an audio description,

to show me the lines.

 

Trying to see the meanings

that hide underneath

the words written,

a language I'm not fluent in.

I have to pore over every movement,

every word, every look, every time

you touch your hair.

Is that a signal that you care?

Or that you wish to be elsewhere?

 

So signs are so hard to read.

 

Except one...

 

The one that says shut up.

That says I'm not listening,

I've turned off, I'm away from keyboard,

booked a vacation, so long.

 

And yet I still can't stop

the verbal flurry, the incessant

word slurry.

For if I need to say something,

the sentence needs to be laid out,

and understood.

 

Why?

Because it is there.

 

But you're already away

in a whole world of your own,

so I'm here like a plank of wood,

just chipping away at myself

to try to make sense,

when you are not

interested in my nonsense.

 

So sometimes I just stay

silent instead. Letting all thoughts

bubble away, screaming internally,

like a kettle on a hob.

 

Alone

in my head,

away with the fairies,

watching the sun setting,

wishing to be less annoying,

 

because I've been told

to shut up since

I was a baby.

In Bloom

 

I was born in the '80s,

but I had my first taste of life in the '90s.

 

I discovered music…

 

The '80s never did it for me. But then

a hail of guitars thrashed around,

knocking down walls so I could finally see.

 

Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Alice in Chains, Soundgarden,

Mad Season, Green Day, Offspring, Rancid, Op Ivy.

 

Then I dived deeper in.

 

I'd buy anything with a guitar pulse,

a sliver of a drumming heartbeat.

I'd walk through the grungy record store,

a new rose in bloom, and I'd devour

the sounds, my wave crashing as I held

my haul ready to explore.

 

Always exploring. Looking for that special something.

 

Gigs most nights. Moshpit passion,

a blaze of light and colour, slashing

through sound, and the fear inside crashing

like the walls I'd already built in place.

I dreamed of the stage, of sharing

what I'd create, just my creation wasn't ready.

 

Weekend nights rock clubs, I could get

past the bouncers if I stood tall...

which at almost six foot wasn't hard.

 

Newkie brown and whisky chaser,

first taster of life's pleasure.

First kiss on a sweaty dancefloor,

steamed-up brains, inflamed thoughts

that rain, and I'm only happy when

it pours down on me, feeling the warmth

of a loving embrace, like I'm above, and

the room only existed for us.

 

This room without a window.

Welcome to paradise.

A routine: same place, same lips,

same face. And Catherine

wheels would spin as the sky tore ablaze,

never more, never less,

just stolen moments of bliss. And a taste…

 

By night I was a whirlpool of emotion,

by the day I tried to live. Cycling high and low.

 

Morning spins in hungover haze,

classroom waves, head swimming, now

drained, dazed, as pages became journals

to other worlds, the doodle waterfalls

spelt out new words.

But those moments of magic still lived on

in the linings. And I learned so many lessons

in those moments.

I walked with a prouder stride.

 

The bullies didn't stop, but I stood my ground.

 

Was life finally turning around,

or was I walking headfirst into the storm clouds,

without a care in the world?