I wish that I could draw…

I wish that I could draw


because I could show you my work and

you wouldn’t question what it meant.


A charcoal figurine with lavender eyes

would be admired for its form, its contrast.


Little feet and large swollen hands and

you wouldn’t even question my perspective.


It is art- things are meant to be distorted

and wrong and upturned.


You wouldn’t say; “Why are you sad?” or

“Where have these thoughts come from?”


because you’d know what is produced comes from

pent up creativity that has always been there,


or maybe just the lead of a pencil

and a moving hand.


Backwards on a Train

Somewhere in the Lake District,
mountains comb cumulus clouds
into a frizzy mass.
Pigtail-like wisps use branches as tongs, releasing in gentle curls.


I vomit in the tiny,
too-hot toilet cubicle;
diagnose myself with synesthesia or
some anxiety disorder.


There is relief
in the trolley passing through
the carriage,
the attendant calling me ‘dear’ as he hands me a copy of ‘Cosmopolitan’.


I read an article about
nightclubs in Ibiza,
glance at glossy photographs
of silhouettes dancing
on sand left sodden
by backward waves.