No Small Matter

She by no means meant to ring in the New Year in a draughty
corridor underneath the fuss-pot speakers. A hail-to-Caesar gesture helped

her lift the glass above her rib-cage. When someone said tantalise,
she found she could gyrate her whole body like nobody’s business. Her arms

in the air was not a call to order but a huge relief to the ozone layer, only half
in tatters. She explained what poke on Facebook meant. They took it to heart

and she was left with only one ounce of sense. The grapes felt boisterous
to the touch. Her swallow was sweaty — like that of two dope-heads prancing

about in long-johns, forgetting that tinfoil can be kept in a bread
bin. No one deals out a bad hand, the hand is used to say you are my

sunshine, even if the sky is boiling-over in darkness and a star spits
folly into your big scheme of things . Love lost does not crackle under

the headlights — it is not a bright-eyed bunny waiting its turn on
the sidelines. Holding a coat and an umbrella did not mean she

could not knee-drop at the starting-line. She did not feel the weight
on her arms, in actual fact, the lightness-of-being she had prayed

for earlier seemed to make light of her shoulder blades and she kept
lifting. Eyes were blinking all around her. There was a nuance

of something drawing to its close. The side note she had pinned
to her breast-plate was anything but plain-speaking. It reminded

her to stop fretting about straying and to just imagine how bare-
faced and bare-footed one must be while walking in clover

before everything starts smelling of roses. She was thankful for the knee-
length boots that held her nicely in place while she acted normal

to all about her. She left in time and arrived home another person.

A Monster Feeling

A nightcap of hot whiskey causes free-
fall. The bottle’s swan-like neck says: Rule me!
A daddy longlegs lives behind my shower
gel. While I took steps, my skirt slipped off.
I fear a trouser-burst, my bottom bare.
There is no happy explosion of good
times. Instants agonise. I can not find
the light switch. The ground is zero. He is
lost in the overgrowth. I am propped up on
a pillow — the sheep, all fumbling, in my head.

Note to Self

My note to self says: go grab each moment.
The Maltesers melt in my hand, not in my
mouth. Mum is the word. My lips swell beyond
recognition. Christ alive. Swine flu snowballs.
I wash every last thing in the laundry
basket. The wickerwork does not fall away
in my hands. I do something on the back
of an envelope — crucible — think flappily.
I dread all frosty receptions. I lower my eye
lids to a compliment. A poet on the radio says
his neck fell over, he says he knows how to feel
beyond numb. A poem starts happening in his
head — it is not simply a case of just add water.
Someone’s mother tells her the only thing that is
going to break her, is her. I start to make ends
meet. I put on a happy face. I see through a shade
wearer. On the face of it, I eat my greens and
stroke my cat, while he lies, crashed out, beside me.