Home

"Maybe the definition of home is the place where you are never forgiven, so you may always belong there, bound by guilt. And maybe the cost of belonging is worth it."

                                                    Gregory Maguire - Wicked

Rusted

A long, drawn-out hike through the snow
Past the chemical works, around the resevoir.
Crunching boots and heavy steps forward
Brightened by the artificial beams
Directed mercilessly on the current shift
Stopping to look down at worn hands
Before pushing them up to rub his face,
Pulling them outwards ... firmly,
Stretching his skin so tight
Amost surgical, oriental eyes dragged
Then shut firmly and quickly
An accompaniment to the scream inside his head
And the thump, steadily caged within his chest.
The wind is strong and impossible at times
Dragging the landscape, thick in oils
Like a hurriedly painted scene

Sitting in the fresh, untouched snow
Beside the dumping canal
His only thoughts are his decisions
Only yes or no this time
His arse is wet and cold
His discomfort echoes his mind
He stares at the oil-slicked water
Black and white...do or don't
Mesmorised... trance
Hours and hours... cold ice
Numb (nearly), do it? He is scared
No, not today. Next time.
Digging a heal into the ground he pushes
Against nothing.. and falls
Clumsily into the waiting brine bath below
There is no decision now.

Melted and fine tuned into this, just this
A concentrated, pin-point of blinding light
Like the sun through a lens
His heart screams in a second, in the cold
Dissatisfaction and unrest punished rapidly
An old, rusted bed leg pierces his gut
His frozen, shocked body slides in smooth
Then staccato death rhythm
Pressed against the mesh of old frames
Where once a soft mattress cushioned wearyness
Harsh strands of hopelessness brand him, grid-like
Row upon row of neat little boxes
Columns of organised laceration
He has lived his tomorrows today
And his yesterdays are last year's news.


~Charlotte Sometimes (SRWB) aka Leccie 2010

Paper Dolls

Paper dolls have vintage porcelain faces,
chipped of course
Hollow inside when tapped,
shining with ancient lacquer.

Retro clothes are cool
but so old and obselete
Left to fester and crawl
against the cleanest covering
of decorated buildings;
no sound, it's soft
yet busy and flustered
so that hearts cannot beat.

No room inside flat carcasses
for expansion and breath
The cracks in glass eyes
show bloodshot and bulging
Displaced into the only space left
as one dimension meets another.

They continue to practice vomitting
though nothing emerges
as a 2-fingered emetic prize
Ultimate shabby chic
in putrid, puke-stained rags
and pin-point sharps tottering
on wafer-thin needles
Falling in apathy and saturation,
always ice underfoot.

Toxic, starved and squeezed
into hook, eye and button loop
Touch is forbidden, slicing
ragged skin brings gasping sting
Droplets; bright, fresh and red
on clean, white snowfall
but not much from diminished vessels
it sizzles the ice
like salt on fat, bloated slugs.

Paper bags for paper dolls,
hang on sticks and sharp edges
There is no control with kindred brass
clanging loosely inside corridors and
echoing through unseen corners.

Existence hangs quietly in
yearning, digestive stasis
Bones and shards stained
in old, perfumed lip gloss
Choking and gagging on nothing
as she likens herself in the mirror
to pulling a trigger like they do on the TV
Legs apart, arms strong and straight in front
But she has no strength
No direction, no needs
No life.

~ Charlotte Sometimes (SRWB) aka Leccie 2009