it’s a constricted sensation deep within my chest
I doubt my ability to name it as it settles —
living and breathing and growing
sickening each lung in turn until oxygen feels liquid and I choke.
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The mud is holy. The house is haunted. The stinging nettle loves the blackberry, as much as any plant can and my therapist says I must ask my parents for the money that is owed me.
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I am out with lanterns looking for myself
amongst thorns, leaves and old bean bags that rot out
behind the shed – look there! My childhood watches
me on my hands and knees, scrounging and bleeding.
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My heart has started missing beats
I think the Thing is taking them
from where it mouths the muscle
with its rigid,
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My grasp weakens again on the merciless rope
that the crowd ahead of me is tethered to
Plodding to the incessant beat of time that deafens my sensitive ears.
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Even when my eyes are closed, I am haunted by yours.
I ache for sleep and yet you’re still awake, forever in my mind
Looking at me, staring and studying and searching for
Something.
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Scanlines on TVs used to pose a technical challenge
Editors would create imperfect images
Then corrected by the technical limitations of a TV
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The ghost of the stationmaster is sleeping rough
in the Winding House shell - its arched eyes gape,
the wind surges through him.
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Let me in
Clawing at the ribs,
those polished white candlesticks
pretty red tassels decorate.
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The train whistle rips his thoughts, taunting
the papermaker as he leaves the sleek, concrete
bunker by the sea where he makes his paper now.
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Here, nature is tame.
Fences and bushes and well-cut paths.
Nothing like the wild walks of home
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