Daily Archives: September 9, 2018

After not taking meds, by Abegail Morley

I am not a silent poet

In the distance myself dithers in a separate darkness,
I squint and there she is, squatting in accustomed corners,
palms grazing walls simultaneously, touching

self-made scars. I let them do it, embrace coldness,
uncoloured skies. I should name my mood-swings
as if they’re storms, Met Office’s first this year closed

every school on the Western Isles. I went home early
warned by strong currents circling my brain. Last night
I knew it heaved itself from borders, quickened

with wasps burning around my head as if they knew
I was short-circuiting, wings searing hair till I woke
from a dream of black cliffs, starved skin, a drenched

mouth falling and rising. I look at last year’s crop,
drunken bees dallying around my body, wading until tired
legs stop. I can lie to you in stages like I do now

picking sloes from the ceiling of my bedroom, waiting
for fermentation to…

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Pointless appointment, by Abigail Morley

I am not a silent poet

I listen to the GP and my childish voice
clambers to my throat, stands on the stump
of tongue, leans far back as if it owns
the space. My mouth’s a narrow bed,
the weight of bodies turning
in their sleep dig grooves deep as ditches
or open graves. I’m riddled with the fact
they discharged you to some dead-end
village, let your skin crumple like tissue
on that first night home. We didn’t know
we could have saved you. I have your absence
folded in half like a magazine, wait
to unwrap you in multi-coloured splendour.
He talks about blood pressure,
medication, not how you died last month
running off the cliff as if your bones
could find shelter stacked in the sea.

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The letter from the follow-up team, by Abegail Morley

I am not a silent poet

arrives the day after your funeral, after
I’ve listened to Sleepers Wake, Liza’s eulogy,
the lost sobs of little boys. My mind
stutters on letters’ kerning, studies how words
lean as if to hold themselves up. There’s no date.
I take this as laziness. It’s been four weeks since
you lay green-yellow in ICU, air sacs drowning
lungs, sepsis road-mapping itself through veins.

He has achieved success who has lived well

I’d stopped listening, tuned into the boys
two rows behind, heard tissue’s soft twist,
felt the smart of startled breaths rupture
young throats. Two weeks ago you and I sat side-
by-side eating fish pie staring at the garden.
You ate sporting a navy fleece and striped
pyjama bottoms which made me laugh.

Whose life was an inspiration; whose memory 

Right now, I don’t know that the letter from your
care team will come too late. Right…

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The Saints are Full of Holes, by Bobby Parker

I am not a silent poet

Delicate, goofy and sweet;
we must never know the truth.
The mind is pretty ruthless when it comes down to it.
This morning, first thing Katy tells me
is they caught the Golden State Killer.
Damn,
I will never be a hot fireman.
Although one time
I pretended I was the sexiest dad
at the school gates,
stud to sleepy mothers,
hero to hunchbacked fathers,
my daughter’s teacher catching her breath as I adjusted
the kink in my boxer shorts.
In dreams, you’re greatly rewarded
for outstanding services
to depression. My neck of the woods.
When your future feels like
a picture of a mailbox
sinking into a river of lava
as blue flames dance
toward the power station
it might be time to reconsider
the outrageous demands you make
on your cherry-picked gods.
Many people are made of bad sex and weird soup.
Racism.
Power Rangers Death Curse.
Spontaneous Human Combustion.

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