Is It Impossible?

His knee could be an accident

spilling someone’s drink

an ill-timed road crossing

but it’s not.

It’s not.

His leg moves like a building site crane

clumsy through binoculars, but, actually

it’s the precisest of men working levers

making sure he doesn’t bulldoze wrong buildings.

And he’s waited 5 months to bulldoze you.

When will you let him bulldoze you?

No-one cares, helps or hopes you

will be here tomorrow

and if he’s only, bar Peggy, who once

not now though

why not hard hat blue collar outside?

Why not like maybe?

true love

Peggy 2013 (NaPoWriMo #8)

He likes you the way Jack liked you
when you liked him at school
and this amounted to lunch with seven other people at his house
on Wednesdays.

This guy has a wife.

Jack has a wife now too
but the space between you
isn’t a gridded text book, anymore
waiting for a cheat easy answer.
Your chemistry would be quashed like five day old avocado
kind of the wrong color
melting in the fridge drawer against a strawberry box.

There is no move on New Year’s
with this guy or Jack
or any other guy that works for you or doesn’t
or even someone you could afford
the going rate’s within means now
but being able to afford something doesn’t mean you’re going to get it
necessarily, does it?
peggy 2013

The Dentist

I’ve ignored every toothache I’ve had and every boyfriend telling me to find dentists, get doctors, gets told that I’ll fix myself and I carry on fixing, Googling, standing in the Health section in bookshops as long as it takes: until someone tells me to buy it. Never.

Soon, my sister will qualify and every question, lump, scratch, scar, eye flash or floater, will be hers to answer, dissect, know.

I used to wait for saviours, named in songs and words written by men or god-given depending on the historical accuracy of the people teaching or talking or sprawling. Now, I am my own. And when I buckle, when the pain’s a bone burner, I call in contacts of contacts of mine, never select anyone randomly, because that would add weight to serendipity, fatalism, creationism, love.

This won’t be the first time I’ve sipped blood, smelled blood, died.

The Fire

Would you fix your nose, hair, weight, waist if it’d make a difference? If it was even the hint of a difference, a possibility that could burn or break you, would you do it? Could you single-mindedly fix yourself on to a goal and extinguish doubt without religion, or are you not in a position to? Would you let someone else be you if it meant who you were, became, could be, was the only sort of worthy that matters? Celebrity. Or would everything end before then?


Sink Fixer Shock Kisser

You strike a balance between suburbs and city and you keep women happy because you were brought up to even though you were raised in a whore house or because of that.

You can’t believe out of every man it’s him that kisses, a grab shock kiss you resist an appropriate amount, open the door after to send a message, or fake send it, you’ll decide after. You’re almost divorced.

Losing a shirt, tie, tartan suit jacket, is enough to impress anybody, and who knew spanners were easy? Who would’ve thought a tap could be mended succinctly. It’s true you have a touch. Each of the three knows it. Every city woman, worker, girl.

No hands – and by holding them back the scene’s underscored with, “I saw Sherlock Holmes. I saw you in it. And you were the villain. You ended things.”

So we end this we end this we end this. We find the toolbox and we stop leaks, mistakes, slips, feelings not substantiated by knowledge or learning or friendships. We smash and we want messiness more than this but we tell everyone we want this because we want it now but now is not tomorrow.



Betty Draper

Downhill. Your husband cheated on you and you divorced him and remarried immediately and now you’re unhappy and you’re eating chips and you’re sucking leftover ice cream up like there’s rationing and you’re faking sickness to stay in bed, avoiding sex, having lunch with friends even though clothes stopped fitting months ago.

I know it’s a lie. You didn’t put weight on. You never put on much. And the fat suit’s smooth, fleshy, the joins masked by slopped on foundation which stops us finding your skin hue, halts us knowing you completely. I’d like to enter the lie, lick the edges of it, understand the overlaps, extras. Enjoy the additions, like 50% free washing powder or Wispa Duos. Like anything there’s two of. Every opportunity to do something twice. (I’d __ you twice).