Do you still smell the same? Intoxicating and inviting. Being wrapped in your arms, Would leave me drunk off desire, Do you still taste the same? Rich, and melting in my lustful mouth, Like freshly pressed coffee, And sweet fragrant vanilla. Do you still feel the same? Would your touch leave me trembling again? Would my hands still know you? Grip you tight in ecstasy.
I am years of depression in the making, A broken concoction of self-help and self-hate. Progress, the weapon utilised to silence the audience, Is just as fake as the smile I paint on in the morning, To hide the desire to either laugh at my suffering, Or to will my heart to cease beating. I am composed of trauma’s melodic refrain, And I am played over my own disturbed backing, Pretending every moment is a blessing, When really I am gluing my pieces back together, Finding discarded shards all over my psyche, Pretending I am on a journey of self-discovery. I am bursting at the seams with rage, Sewing myself a harness to contain my mania With the snapped threads of my heart strings. The blood thirsty fever dripping from my jaws, The seething grit that sits in my grin, Aims as inwardly as it does outward.
My Dearest Armistead, What has kept you for all this time? Has the pen weighed too heavily in your hand? Did the words seem too fleeting to write? I hope you were happy. We shared such dark times before, Times that only a writer and their mask can share. Are we picking up where we left off, Broken and shattered? Or have some pieces been reassembled? Let’s hope this glue is stronger. I see your life is very different now. You carry more grief upon your shoulders. I worry Armistead, will those shoulders hold? And your smile, how long 'til it fades again? Aren’t you scared? We tend to bring out the worst in each other, Focus on the wretchedness of your life, And rip the last bandages away, Exposing the emptiest parts of your soul. Oh how I have missed you. Now, Armistead, Let’s get to work again, shall we? Regards, Armistead.
Images move animatedly across the tv screen, Sounds are blended into the background noise, The foreground filled with heavy breathing, The satiation of pleasure between two, Summed up by title of ‘Netflix and chill.’ The sequel, a follow up on two series merging, Finally born, gendered by the pink onsie, The gentle curves of tassels and bows, And the growing basket of perfectly painted, Single expression, pose-able dolls. Years of playing courting, marriage, Nuclear house, one ken, one barbie, and baby, Of traditionalism imposed in playtime, destroyed. The babe who once played with dolls, Becomes the doll in the tent playing with her bae. Within a flash, the two are married, Both taking and barrelling their surnames, Living equal in their roles, life, and love, Until the hourglass is empty, And the grieving hold their umbrellas in the rain.
Burn me to beyond my flesh, Until charcoal becomes my bones, Prepared to fall into unskilled hands, And trace amateur musings on cheap paper. Remake my ashes into your altar, Ready to receive sacrilegious homages, Prayers filled to the brim with debasement, As you pick your false God, or God’s, And punish each other for differing choices. Betray my actions with your memories, Portray as a fictitious being of your design, Claim dominion over your perception, And pass on your contortions to your kin. Teach them of my misery and woe, Belittle my mistakes to lowly choice, A haphazard misstep by misstep, That led to inevitable brimstone. Pretend me to be a sinner in life, And a fiery withered soul in death, As you picture thick sulfuric gasses, Turn and swirl in my remnants of lung, Catching breathless behind my tongue. But don’t scream when your lack of reformation, Stemming from absence of self-reflection, Leaves you burnt on my named headstone.
Yous are ruining my life Belts an immature Geordie tongue Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. I hate yous Screeches her juvenile lungs Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. You’re not a very nice mummy Shouts the crying child. Stomp, Stomp, Stomp Up the stairs she runs. Slam She shuts the door. Thump She throws herself onto her bed. * I told her she couldn’t have chocolate for breakfast
I had spent many hours with her, Both young and grown. I had grown beside her kin, With a mother who shared her blood. She was reckless in my mother’s eyes, Wild as the wind that she flew on. A woman who lived by no law, But by principle of her own heart. She near always smiled at me, And she laughed at my cynicisms. We drank several nights away, At the bar, or on the step of a shop door. Like many young, I fled the nest, Spread my wings for lands afar, Leaving them all behind me, But visiting with growing infrequency. On my return there would be happy reunion, Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs. Gatherings of the now grown and their young, Besides our elders now older once more. But time did fly by quicker, And 15 months seems to blink fast. And soon I am beckoned back, Returning to see her again. My mother, as always, Holding the hands of my family, As a means to hold their souls, their bodies, And their strength, in an upwards fashion. Me, smiling through, as taught, Showing that the living are not afraid. I hold her hair 'twix my fingers, And braid in flowers as we laugh. I roll her smokes, before my own, The legality of them questionable, As she waves between here and there, Jittery with fear of being wedded. I paint over the hollowing skin, Lighten her sunken eyes, With a mixture of tones, pigments, Creams and powders, brushes and sponges. The clocks strikes and the camera clicks, She grins as she is wheeled along, I press the button as she makes vows, Promises to be short lived and kept. We drank, we smoked, we laughed, I sang, for she couldn’t any longer, I walked for her, towing the chair, And navigated with care and fear. Family gathered, united, strong again, Smiling at the simple pictures I captured, Wondering at the beauty of her, Of her soul, of her love. The woman wore purple, As a bride, draped in purple and white, As a mother, through waking night, As my aunt, when hugging me tight. The woman wore purple, And when I saw her last, she wore it still. Though I’ll never see her again, I know the woman wears purple.
The scissors final snip liberates me of the locks over grown, And creates a new silhouette around my face, One that sat similar to a past one, but as a newer rendition. The colour a combination of fading hues, out grown bleach, and dark roots, The sides shaven short, and the top left long and loose. I felt like a renewed me, a different individual, No longer defined by the frugality of an overgrown home cut, But shaped by the hands of a professional. Living as though a person pampered, showered in shallow luxuries. Looking at my reflection and regaining the power I felt for too long was lost. But the power was not the item lost to me most, No, for I have lost my definition. I am at the whims of the family I hold together, As my equal seems to drown in the life we have found ourselves in, I hold afloat our raft, and provide for the three of us a sanctuary. The safety net is spread wide enough to catch them and their baggage, As my baggage is dragging through the murky waters behind us. Each case holding a different aspect of me, A portion hidden away indefinitely, until time allows me to unpack. My heart cradles a child spawned from a careless woman. A mother who desired a babe, but couldn’t protect the child, Whose selfishness took over her instincts in favour of a demon. The child loves me unconditionally, and I love more in return, Handing over the remaining half of each breath I take, Giving her each second heartbeat, and most every thought. I ferry her across the unwelcoming seas, bearing the waves myself, As she dances blissfully unaware of the storms we pass through. But motherhood is not my definition, only an inherited title, One I clench my hands tightly around to keep, but one I fear also. I am spread thinly across each bag that floats along with us, The literate, the musical, the angry, the calm, the loud, the quiet, Among some of the guises interchangeably worn, but put back, Restrained back into their hides, as I try to establish the singular face to wear, Unknowingly losing any further identity in my search for one. Writing under a name not given, but chosen, picked like cherries, And not wanting liberation from anything other than myself. Realizing maybe this is the meaning of grown, or maybe this is the meaning of trapped.
The Poet Armistead 