Jack, The Time Machine

Jack is a time machine,
a single sip and I’m back,
on the kitchen floor
of an old friend’s house,
or stuck to the dancefloor,
the creaking old wood.
Cigarette ends and techno
and punk rock.

Jack is a time machine,
washing away years,
back to washing away pain.
Crying in the mirror,
drinking alone.
Alone with no north star,
my “idols” never got me,
I looked the wrong way.

Jack is a time machine,
to every old pursuit,
after dancing with my friends.
Blowing guys in car parks,
Jack and cum on my tongue,
diet coke after taste,
lighting up a fag
and slipping away.

Jack is a time machine,
the morning wheeze,
Christmas lights in June,
sheets around my ankles.
A mix CD on repeat,
left spinning all night.
House mates in the next room,
us all with stories to tell.

Jack is a time machine,
fifteen years have passed,
I haven’t touched him in years.
Bringing him to my lips,
the taste of an old friend.
Vaping and thinking,
thinking and thinking.

Your Newton’s Cradle

Every experience you will ever have
will add to your own Newton’s Cradle.
Every pendulum added will swing into you
as you grow ever older,.
The slap of the clearest memory,
fading into the distance again.
Only to swing back and slap you again
when you least expect it.

An Unfinished Poetic Autobiography (Part 1)

Where to begin with such an endeavor,
a project to work on in fits and starts,
snapshots of my life to prove I was here,
a decent enough self-portrait or poetic autobiography,
Let’s start with nightmares.

My earliest memory is a nightmare.
giants, a storm and a strange woman i haven’t met yet.
My most recent nightmare was this morning,
cars and people swept away in a flash flood,
5am I awoke my heart beating so hard
to a ravaging thunderstorm outside our window,
the worst storm I have ever known.

The first lust I truly felt, 12, a friend of mine,
camping on the edge of a forest not far from home,
tall yellowing grass, adders and camp fires.
He was wearing shorts and nothing else,
hands idly down the front playing with himself,
sweating rolling down his chest and stomach,
brief glimpses inside his shorts as his hands moved.

My first cigarette, 16, drunk and in drag.
we were all dressed up for The Rocky Horror Show.
Covered in glitter and heckling people driving by,
lipstick smeared reckless abandon and a great show.
Purple walls, cheap wine and wrong kisses later,
the afterparty was truly a mess for those involved,
we still reminisce about that night to this day.

A weekend to cherish forever, 22, he met me.
He was 28 and so beautiful, we danced all night.
Making love and listening to records we loved,
mix CDs we had made for each other and our stories.
We made long distance work, we moved in together,
6 years later now and we’re engaged to be married…

To Be Continued…