izzy

Him: come down.
Her: I won’t.
Him: calm down.
Her: I can’t.
Him: I’m waiting for you.
Her: it’s cold up here. and the air feels fresher. realer.
Him: I’ll wait for you.
(suddenly, she whips a hand out and grabs a bird perched at the end of the branch she has been sitting on. swallows it whole.)
Him: …
(she begins to clamber down from her tree. opens her mouth. nothing but birdsong.)

*

sarah

Crazy old dad, I always thought, with that crazy big old dog. That lacquered little photo, two matchboxes wide, laid low under my pillow where my downy four-year-old head rested its way to five and six and seven and then the war was over and dad never did come home and on we went with our days which scudded past like burly big clouds.

And though the picture was long lost, every night through my adolescence, gut-punching along like everyone else’s, every night through my twenties, my thirties, my marriage, my children, every night I put it under my pillow with my inside eyes and traced its grey lines that I had so loved. Dad, big-nosed, big-eared, skinny-shouldered, like he’d forgotten to grow anything lower than his chin, grinning a dumb old grin. Cap off to the side, all jaunty. I wondered so hard how it stayed on when he ran, when a gust of wind howled through the snowy trees. Stripes on his collar, like big roman numerals, another peeking diagonally across his chest like it was trying to reach out and steal his buttons. And that beautiful big eagle over his chest, dancing on a circle whose centre I could never quite see clearly.

And then, right by his head, breathing hot onto his shoulder, that dog. The biggest there had ever been, I thought. White and shaggy and vast, his head dwarfing even dad’s big old noggin, with his teeth bared and his eyes black and cold.

But dad wasn’t scared, no way, he was smiling on over, bold as brass while that big old dog grinned the best he could, canines and wet black lips. The best of buddies, I thought. Dad and his dog, off to the war, and I bet they fought like soldiers and I bet they never stopped smiling, just like that, dad under his big dad nose, and the dog under his black button one. They were the best team there had ever been and I was glad, glad they were looking after each other, together til the end. And when we never heard about any awards for either, not for dad and not for the dog, I knew it was because they were too cool to brag, because they knew, they had each other and they’d always know what they had done.

It wasn’t until mum died and I was left to sort through the sack of sadness that was her house that I found it again. Two seams across it, straight like that emblem never had been, folded and unfolded and refolded and cried over. There he was again – same old ears, same old nose, though to be honest, both a trifle smaller than my child brain had made them. And to his left, that big old dog. White and fat and wolfish. I knew every curve of its fur still. And of course, it was my adult eyes that finally stepped in and chided my four-five-six-seven year old ones for what they hadn’t seen. How I’d ever thought it was real I could not fathom, but hope and love will do what nothing else can. The costume was cartoonish, the face confused, part dog, part wolf, part sheep, part bear. The mouth cracked open and black flooded behind the teeth and I wondered whether I could see the human eyes inside that mawkish grinning mouth. And I wondered whose eyes they were, whose hands were laced into those brutish paws. Who had made my father’s eyes glitter so beneath their cap, above their collar. And I wondered who else my father, my beautiful big-smiled father had looked at and seen nothing but a dog.

*

izzy

if periods were a superpower

she spilled onto the pavement, an unstoppable deluge
‘slut, you fucken dumb slut, I’ll kill you’
shaking the powerlines, scattering pigeons
he had asked for a cigarette
he had asked the market value
he had asked for the box prize and sugar milk cereal
‘fancy some early morning sex?’
he had told her she did not belong to herself
he had told her it was sex or seething spite
he had stripped her to the ribs like meat
‘no, fuck off. NO. FUCK.’
all he could call her for denying him
‘slut.’
and the torrent poured, raging, out of her
he slipped on slick concrete
shining wet and red under skittering feet
his mouth pulled into and ‘o’ with an underbite
gubbling in the mire, sucking air through his teeth
shrilling a backwards gurgled wolf-whistle
his eyes pooling in the shock of it
bathing in her crimson flow
he was right, she wasn’t human
she was superhuman
and the hate in his veins burst
as he gasped his last
and she strode away, dripping.
they closed the street with yellow caution tape
for weeks they scrubbed
in hazmat suits, down on their knees
but it’s still stained red and raw.

*

sarah

I have made me a home built of laptop cord and underwear
swathed in sick yellow sandals and a thousand bobby pins
come to see the world

*

izzy

I found my doppelgänger at the bottom of the pile. All tangled limbs, scraped elbows and knees and heavy-lidded eyes that lolled open and closed with gravity when I lifted her head to see.

*

sarah

I woke up sweating for the fiftieth time
and thought maybe I am a funeral pyre by night
maybe all the dead stories of the world
come to me in the moonlight to sear on my skin
maybe I am the source of all of the dust motes
found floating in sunbeams by day

*

izzy

what would happen if our hearts beat at the exact same time when we were having sex?
this train is splitting atoms in hot air speeding through the German countryside under night’s heavy breathing blanket.
everything feels far away, even this carriage, this compartment, this body.
from Paris to Berlin dreaming of Van Gogh skies – looking at Portrait de l’Artiste, I could imagine his hands rough and raw even though they weren’t in the picture and all of him was physically present despite the frame.
Van Gogh, the man suicided by society.
Artaud, his ally, some kind of psychic confidant.
even Inferno’s 2005 hit can’t explain this feeling
thinking about the selfie I should take to mark my arrival and whether my arms are long enough to capture anything more than my head.

*

sarah

We collapse our way onto seats on a Regionalbahn train into Frankfurt, tripping on the armrests and cradling our packs like fat zippered dogs on our laps. Over the top of mine is a woman, maybe thirty-five, looking mildly alarmed at us, our luggage, our English chattering. Her skin is bad, marked with the sort of red lesions that treat the awkward line between sleep deprivation, badly picked acne and casual methamphetamine use. Behind us, a plump policeman with greying hair and fine-rimmed glasses ambles up to diffuse an explosion of noise from an inspector huffing at a woman clothed in spare children. The policeman rolls back, greeted by an approving murmur from a young woman opposite him. She talks with the sort of throaty low voice that suggests that her gaze is meandering around the policeman’s pelvis. He rumbles happily back to her. The train rounds a corner of track with a hideous screech of metal, and I share a sympathetic ‘god-that-noise-is-awful’ look with Tired/Acne/Meth woman. The metal bleats again and she jumps. She has the sort of defeated strength worn by the sort of person whose job largely involves being clicked at by suited men. The train arrives. We pinball machine our backpacked way through the aisles, she disappears into the lofty metal of the station.

*

izzy

You are a fire that started itself and no one else knows how to put out.

*

sarah

In a 36 hour travel haze
with my brain running over speed bumps
like stepping off a treadmill in my head
a headache tapping insistently at my temple
and the clouds laid out flat like a picnic blanket
I think ‘I am in the sky.’
which means about as much as
‘I am on a floating rock in the infinite vacuum of space’
and I think that of all the things that distinguishes man
all the horrors and heroism of this species of ours
we are remarkable mainly in this:
I think that we are the only creature that has a concept of reality
who can say (and does, and often) ‘This is unreal’
or ‘surreal’, or ‘hyper-real.’
All the otters and lions and midges and dogs of the world
Just are, just am, just be.

*

izzy

Sitting in an ancient and sagging leather armchair upstairs at Shakespeare and Co, with the sounds of Notre Dame’s bells pealing through the open window and breathing in dust, wood and old paper. These walls breathe. Once a place accumulates a certain amount of history, once enough ideas and excitement melt into its walls, it becomes a tourist attraction. How many writers have touched their hearts to this ceiling, how many poets put their ears to the buckled shelves? How many philosophers rested their teeth on the tiled floor, how many revolutionaries placed their fists on a patch of stone wall by the window? How many sightseers have stood under the sign at the front door and crossed it off the map, how many backpackers have looked around the library and left when there was nothing in this room to buy? I do the tourist thing and leave a note on the wall by the typewriter. These walls breathe but they don’t speak, they listen.

*

sarah

A: I’m not real.
B: You are.
A: I’m not. I’m just words.

*

izzy

6 inches of pure masculine glory
bursting from this face
like a burnt steel wool scourer
that just learnt how to scowl
limbs moving like pistons to pour drinks
little shards of ice
smashing onto the bar for fumbling mouths
arms that say ‘I know pain, and I can hack it’
amorphous swirls of ink stretched taut
over them guns, them guns
all these pieces held together
by a ‘Detroit Techno Militia’ tee
a futuristic drink-dispensing machine
but everyone knows you cry when you come –
it devours you.

*

sarah

The year folds in half round this evening
as I sit, quilted in carpet and cast-off old clothes
mouthing aphorisms in the middle of my brain
like ‘We’re all going to die, might as well take a look
at this funny old world before you have to fall off’
and ‘If you don’t go off and have an adventure
you’ll die the most boring person in the world’
It’s just that
I’ve got a new bed
and I haven’t yet found
the perfect way to curl up in it

*

izzy

Poem from the perspective of a ‘tribute porn’ photo with cum on it
Poem from the perspective of a used condom
Poem from the perspective of a scrunched tissue
Poem from the perspective of a sheet with blood on it
Poem from the perspective of cosplay panties
Poem from the perspective of a pillow with bite marks in it
Poem from the perspective of a fogged-up shower screen with butt marks in the steam
Poem from the perspective of an empty subway carriage
Poem from the perspective of a bathroom stall
Poem from the perspective of an almost-dark football oval
Poem from the perspective of the inside of an eyelid
Poem from the perspective of leather upholstery
Poem from the perspective of sticky fingers
Poem from the perspective of a foaming mouth
Poem from the perspective of a vibrating dildo
Poem from the perspective of a pink plush cushion

*

sarah

Head turned slightly to the left, slightly up, to catch the ceiling light in a way that doesn’t shadow my glasses.
Glasses pushed up nose (again), reflecting the light globe. Can’t see my right pupil properly. Ball of light.
Cheeky side smile, on the left, left cheek appled, right cheek flat.
Crinkles at both corners of the eyes (affected).
Head pushed a little too far forward on the neck, to avoid double chins.
Stomach sucked in, just in case.
Weight on left foot, right knee bent.
General attempted air of saucy approachability. Viewer should feel like they could take me home after a brief but heavy flirtatious battle of wits, and that once in bed, I would be up for anything.
Click.

*

izzy

the kind of love song I hope someone will one day write about me but hopefully in a less rhythmically challenged way

you and me by the edge of the sea
I bought us fish and chips
and you forgot the ketchup
but it’s all ok, yeah it’s all ok
cos I bought us a lemon
at the exorbitant price of a dollar

I’ve got some squeezy ketchup packets
yeah, I’ve got tartare dripping from my palms
this shit is finger-lickin’ good
you got ketchup on my dress already
and lemon in my eye but

I still love you like, I mean,
I still love you like the way this seagull’s staring at us
with it’s one beady eye,
I still love you like you’re the last chip and
I’m a greedy kid having a growth spurt
I love you like an oil slick all over this one-eyed seagull

and you pushed me in the water
you pushed me in the water
it was an accident I think
you pushed me in the water,
chips floating ‘round me like dead fish
bloated potatoes and your face like the moon

your love is like a hand-me-down sweater
with holes in the armpits
your love is like a hand-me-down sweater
and I’ll wash you in hot water so you fit

you and me by the edge of the sea
I bought us fish and chips and you forgot the ketchup
again

*

sarah

O my Luve’s like a red, red rose,
You fell into my arms like a fanfare, love
That’s newly sprung in June:
Chased out from the laundry pile into the air
O my Luve’s like the melodie,
Panting your pardons with a mutt at your feet
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
And your eyes full of petals and tightening thorns

As fair art thou, my bonie lass,
You rolled my father’s name in your mouth like a song
So deep in luve am I;
Armour, amour, this steel plated love
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
You bolted us together in the pit of my gut
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Love and the battlefield, that’s where we burn

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And I flamed in the sheets of our sweet scented bed
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun;
As my children came squalling and fell silent and cold
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
And you left. And I stayed. And I weathered the years
While the sands o’ life shall run.
While you fucked every woman who turned at your name

And fare-thee-weel, my only Luve!
But the mouths you farewelled, all the only true loves
And fare-thee-weel, a while!
All the moss-scented children you left in their arms
And I will come again, my Luve,
Could not fill up your empty, insatiable words
Tho’ ’twere ten thousand mile!
While your armour-clad wife stirred the gruel on the stove

*

izzy

‘am I doing it right?’
there’s a giant hole in the tea-towel so it can hang on the hook in the kitchen
it seems like the giant hole somewhat undermines the purpose of the tea-towel
the tea-towel is far less absorbent with such a large chunk of fabric missing
‘am I doing it right.’
most of the sounds that come through the closed windows are outdoor noises
like cars and scooters passing and loud drunk voices and even some vague hint of music
the only sound that filters through the thin walls is a woman having a very delicate-sounding orgasm
‘am I?’

*

sarah

It’s the sort of cold that gets into your bones
slaps your face, worries your leg like a mangy old dog
puckers your fingers, combs through your hair
makes you feel distinctly less kindly towards the whip-voiced woman
blaring about her shrink, her shrink, the word like a prize
eyes in her ears scanning round the packed restaurant
while the waiter pouring her water paints on a placid smile
floats his thoughts out on the horizon
When I had depression, she trills, my shrink –
Fuck off, lady, we’ve all had depression
all panicked on the train, all pissed ourselves just a tiny bit
just enough to mistrust trampolines and fear the elderly
all felt that teeth-crunching ice-howling cold
pawing at the window outside

*