On your fifth birthday I decided to dance for some reason (and I never dance) it felt like a heady stream of phosphorous lighting and a woman wearing a clown's red hair. When we stand next to each other in the doorway seen against the chirping sunlight we stand there as equals little girls in frocks and baked flip-flops And still, we turn in a half wide arc and shake off those flowers printed upon our dresses The hem moves forwards and upwards as you rock upon the balls of your feet. The room rose in a square spiral with eyes waiting and peering down like dyed jewels into crimson and silk black and tapping shoes as I twisted a toe and arched a foot. In a big wide kitchen there and not there filled with white wood white You made Gnocchi from scratch herb green edges to its yellow flesh It floated in the pot limply as we stared down at it over the top of the silver aluminium pot A tinge of garlic floating upwards and wafting away in a ghostly pale. When we ate it it stuck to the tops of our mouths How is it, you asked, crossing lacquered nails and long legs And everyone hesitated before saying "perfect". Inside your room, the walls are filled with defiant postcards printed on a spread of stars We talk and you laugh but I don't when (or if) you will laugh As you sit sure with impeccable tone a burgundy jumper over mustard skirt When we speak next you stare into leafy distance cold with a casual disposition I have to go now, you say with too many hearts and exclamation marks and all I can write into the glow is 'okat, i lobe do' Flint sequins flash as I turn furious tapping Then there is a breath, a new spiral of silence as I stop and before people clap, when I catch your eye in your golden card birthday crown you look at me blankly And I wish that I had said then, we grow old and it doesn't matter, you become beautiful and I remain small But I can't and I look at you and all I can manage is 'i lobe do'.
I suppose it’s good to write something new on the first day of the month. I’ve been waiting for about two days for September to start because I didn’t know that August had thirty one days, I guess I forgot to do the month-knuckle thing we used to do as kids.
I’ve been thinking about the image I want to use for this piece and I’ve drawn up a blank. So, instead of an image, I made up a song and recorded it. The recording is terrible, and I’m very sorry for that, but I’ve put warmth and scratchiness into that sound for you this Autumn day.
This poem, as you probably noticed, features auto-correct. Technology is quite difficult to depict and represent in prose, and more so in poetry. It can be quite jarring because writing is a thing that has carried on over thousands of years and we collectively still have a rough, but particular, sense of the ‘proper’ tone and aesthetic of written things which is somewhat removed from our present circumstances of quick swiping. I’ve tried to do that here without it being overly awkward, and I don’t know if it has worked. It grates on me slightly, and I don’t know if I’ve managed to capture the human nuance and balanced the two things together, but here you go anyway.