clean

part 1.

there's a puddle on the ground
right across the path
i'm wearing my best wellington boots
but it's too muddy and murky to see the bottom
it looks too deep to go through

i'll go around
tip toe on grass
there's barely a gap to the edge of the canal
no hand rail, a sharp drop down
a knife edged moment of concentrate

my brother's still talking
leaves words in the air
the others are lagging behind
back there
my feet are squelching
hands are wet
a bubble of focus
doesn't want to fall

and i'm thinking how something uncomfortable
is happening because of a dirt track
that hasn't been covered in tarmac
let's puddles spread in its hollows and dips
and land in my body's sensory

when i walk in the street
it's much more clean
i barely notice a thing


part 2.

the tables are shrinking
under the weight
of all the scattered glasses and plates
and handbags placed
not far from reach
as crumbs and pepper
pot crowd in

on one, a wine glass sits
collecting the light to itself
funnels it up and down its stem
fractures and bends
above and below
the light of a whole room
in one glass
it's all you can look at

the table is dull beneath
at a loss for what to do
it's not quite steady
rocks in seesaw
as elbows shift
in conversation

and i'm thinking how all this
is distracting me from my
previous thoughts
how it irritates

and yet if it were to be clean
it would be empty
no life to be seen

shoulder maze again

woman walks across the street,

feels presence of eyes that would meet

her gaze if only she'd lift it up

shoulders shift in bumpy maze

her feet don't touch the ground today

she's lost in thought circles of



trails in sand, stranded threads

crossing, crossing, endlessly

deserts made of rolling dunes

where every grain touches many more

but wherever you stand

you're hidden from view



I've seen you before

we've never met

but I've been breathing your air

wearing your frown

side-stepping and looking down

I've held your money at the bakery

drunk from the same glass as you

your favorite bar, I've sat in your chair

borrowed your lighter, held open the door

pocket stones again

my pockets are all full of stones

catch on fingers fumbling round

fragments broken from age-old cliffs

pebbled weights that hold me down

sometimes I spread them out on the ground

stones like stars brought out to shine

stand there looking for joining lines

a thread to stitch some meaning in

my pockets are all full of stones

the only people I’ve ever known

all these people have been wearing my name

there’s more of us in here than I can count

there’s a fork in my tongue, a great crossroads

there’s barbed wire stuffed inside our mouth

there’s photos and scars but they’re waterproof

all surface and nothing left behind

I’m not sure what they’d have said back then

like a taste that’s hard to identify

swirl it in my mouth like an ageing wine

til all I’ve got is the urge to swallow it down.

I’ve shed my skin, I’ve bled them out

I’ve been slowly replacing all of my cells

I don’t know them and they don’t know me

and yet they’re all I’ve ever been

I thought I’d turned my back on you

I’ve been red-orange-yellow-green-two-toned-blue

I thought I’d made myself anew

but there’s traces stuck like hardened glue

running between my muscles and bones

and I don’t know if I should shake them loose

or if they’re what’s been holding me through

my pockets are all full of stones

pebbled weights that hold me down

I stand there looking for joining lines

but my thread is bare and I cannot sew

precious vase

precious vase

as old as you on your death bed

smashed to shards

for a lifetime

it was

precious vase

stands in final resting place

size and patterns and shape revealed in all their glory

at the moment you cease

to comprehend

life of shards

fragments you

can only hold so many at once in hand

not sure how to combine

each day

life of shards

caught in glimpses in between

each time you look to memories

not quite the same

now back then

fragments past

take on new light as you find them

sometimes too sharp but you

don’t let go

on purpose

fragments fast

forgotten in the blink of an eye

who are were could you be if not your self

selves split solve salvation

tears apart

glimpses between

searching you wish for one whole image

never seen

and will always change

glimpses between

are more than enough if the mirror is clean

but none of ours are

and you’ll always try

but never know

still nothing again

tree tops bare in quiet sway meet

slanted rays of wintry sun pale fingers

reach through patchy cloud

slip your eyes over miles and miles

sounds come wrapped in tin foil

thinned by so much empty space

land like hollow prickles on ears

Danny said: I’ve gazed right into nothingness, and all it is

is nothing less than a long sigh of relief

I’ve tried and tried to prove myself

you won’t believe all I’ve achieved

I’ve tried to show I’m worth the salt

on anybody’s table, and only after so many years am I finally able

to see that all my precious salt isn’t worth anything at all

Andy said: this seems like a wonderful place to sit for a while

the morning sun has poured into the long grains of this bench’s wood

melting scores of moments where other people stood and sat

a pew to silent memories that we can almost touch

Danny said: I’m everything and nothing, simultaneously

all that I touch will disappear, including both of us

we’ve already lost our entire lives, faded out of reach

remember when we climbed the great apple tree?

planks of wood, and hammer and nails in hand

grand plans of what we’d make, and never

the concept that we’d failed when it took a different turn

all those moments are already gone

Andy said: sometimes I think that wood can breathe

have you ever laid on the forest floor and watched

the trunks of tall pine trees sway to and fro  

look at the way the light catches the needles like tongues

of fire, as if the whole tree might go up in flames

Danny said: I’m not afraid of nothingness. I know

I need to slow down and rest, leave more time to digest

the days and days, stop trying so hard to grip onto

things that will only last a fraction of the sun

Andy said: sometimes I like to face backwards on the train

to watch the land and sky and everything between suddenly

appear in the window, hang there like lamps gently swaying

and gradually shrink and fade, so you don’t even notice

the moment when they’re no longer there

Danny said: there’s a great emptiness that sits inside

a lake that reaches far beyond what my skin could hold

whenever I stop for long enough to hear the way

I breathe, there’s a loneliness I cannot bear,

there’s loss and loss, and endings and lack, there’s sorrow for

what never was and what will never come back

Andi said: when all is quiet, the quietness grows and fills the sky

as if your eyes could reach way up there, brush

the tops of the trees and spires, as if your feet

follow and settle on the brow of the farthest hill

your eyes can pick out, and the space between

is empty and full, and you’re here and there

in ploughed up soil and asphalt street

cracks in the air

on the canal bridge you see cracks in the air

that peel away like the bark of an old tree

or the oil of a dried-out painting

and when you stop to stare they pull you in,

knock the wind right out your sails
pulling teeth like pulling nails
sting in your eyes like rings of salt

when they come, they come silently
slices of time that slowly bleed into

your present tense, like
water drawn up from a well
that slowly drips back down again,
and round and round the bucket goes,
water pouring from the holes

if you want you can call them memories
cracks in the air that freeze and thaw

and buckets falling in the breeze

and you end up saying what you did back then

you’ve thought this before, haven’t you?

did you turn a leaf, a page, a few,

or are you turning round but standing still?

and lurking at the bottom of the well,
the thing that tugs on heart strings
that keeps you moving half-pinned
that drives your unconscious thought,
is not what could happen to you,

it's what's already been

but you never were enough back then,

and you’ll never make time undone

and still you expect the past

to happen next

aftermath again

I cannot speak

I cannot mouth the words

cannot fit to you now, after



the mean face of sleep, when

a fierce slap of daylight fights back

the echoes of the night, where



drums could beat a heart to fright

the bate to catch a mouth to choke

to squeeze around a bruised throat

to tighten breath to stop a chest

I cannot keep it in



I cannot be where

I want to be

I cannot want you

to wear yourself down

you cannot see me

like this



I cannot look at you

not knowing when the sudden flash

of hands face too fast heart rate locked in place

I cannot feel



you cannot know

the numbness down here

until it snaps

you cannot leave me

like this

leave me

alone

day dream

day dream, day dream
wake me up, it's morning

day dream spreads its finger claws
grips you frozen in place
great chasm opens up at dawn
stares you down, pale faced

start the motion, start the clock
wind-up bird makes marionette
makes breakfast, fills the coffee pot
makes lists and instantly forgets

tries to grab the day, drops
the plot, lost, day dream
doesn't seem quite real yet
wading through like thick cream

focus on the little things
count to ten to eight to four
wrap yourself in routine
get dressed, go out the door, walk

train, work, train, get
a grip, get some meaning in
to wake to dream to live asleep
to fall to stay in place

day dream, day dream
wake me up, it's morning
how long has it been
this way

time stretches open jaws
locks you paralysed in place
you know you wanted something more
you just don't know what

try to follow structured thought
spools spill spin speeds
up too fast too big and caught
in never ending replay

try to move ahead towards
know it wont work anyway
still feels like you haven't yet
gone anywhere at all

to wake to dream to live asleep
to fall on unsuspecting face
is this mine or is it yours
seems to happen far away
to wake to dream to live asleep
to fall to stay in place

day dream, day dream
wake me up, it's morning
how long has it been
this way

other side

some days I slip to the other side;
short hair, flat chest and button down shirts
can be all it takes to pass as a guy.
its often in bars, restaurants, cafes:
places where nobody knows my name,

and when it happens i notice
something slide away
that i didn't even know
i was still wearing today.
a protective coat,
made of two tones
woven close warp and weft,
weighing down my shoulders,
sits tight around my chest.

one tone is polite and meek:
wont ask a lot, don't mind me,
won't take up space,
always ready to appease,
tense muscles make non-threatening face.

the other tone is opposite:
tilt up chin, rigid back,

like putting on an armoured rack
to make them take me seriously,

listen up when I speak;
and don't act surprised
when it's clever, what i said.
and step aside when we pass in the street,
and pass the ball on the football pitch
without just checking out my ass
or expecting i'll fuck up.

so when I sit here in others' eyes
not as a girl, but a guy --
when I take off this coat,
the balancing act
of trying to be nice
and trying to be tough --

I can suddenly relax.

like I don't need to try;
 I've got plenty of time.
face is calm, muscles drop,
pressure loosens round my throat
so even my voice lowers a notch.

and I can't believe the difference
on this side of the fence:
unspoken permission,
a great big yes,
to demand what I need,
no apology,

and i already know

you respect what i think.

and this confidence is just the calmer side
of the magic power that lies behind: aggression.
I can grab, I can shove
I can shoot, I can run.
don't tell me it's just testosterone.

a class of human taught to look nice,
to please others; their needs come first.
a class of human born to riches,
taught that everything they've got, they deserve.

if two classes are told
from an early age
that these are the rules
by which we play,
and everything they ever meet
says those roles are reality,
then how are they ever going to wake up?
and would they ever hang up their shoes?

well I'm lucky I can choose
to walk on the other side;
not many people can.
but there's things about those shoes
that i don't like.
so here's my chance:
to make a different masculinity:
not one that wants to grab her by the pussy.

island folk

peninsula of forest and swamp,
hundreds of thousands of years ago.
pre-historic wanderers come
seeking a new home.
arrows of flint hunt boar and deer,
then beakers and burial mounds,
copper, bronze and iron found,
sheep make pastures, woods are cleared,
tribes mark out their patch of ground,
farm the land and its yours, my dear.

peninsula became island
eight thousand years ago,
and wanderers continued
to come over in boats.

island split to many parts,
anglo-saxons, britons, picts,
romans, vikings sift and mix.
invasion, fighting, boundaries shift,
between dozens of kingdoms
and dozens of thrones,
and only in century seventeen
can we call great britain whole.

and with all this flow and contest,
at what point in time
can anyone fix the contents,
declare they can define
the identity of the residents
of an island of the mind?
for what more is a nation
than a fiction of yours and mine?

and over time people
kept coming in boats,
and these "foreign" "alien" "immigrants",
find access seems closed
with new explanation
"you're not british enough;
go home".
but over the centuries
even they would become
part of the flavour
of the island nation

and the islanders built their own boats,
sent them far away.
used technology and violence,
strategy and trade
to wield power over foreign lands,
call it empire and congratulate
themselves for superiority,
devise and rule new countries.
war and oppression is better
abroad than at home.

but when people from those places
came to the island great,
they met with suspicion:
"this is our place".

and even after empire's died,
islanders keep their back hands tied
in other countries far and wide.
weapons trade and power pacts,
old systems still reap benefits;
global flow is complex,
witness: butterfly effect.

and economic low there
and political unrest there
can never ever be declared
as entirely separate
from that little old island.

so when the latest people want
to come over in boats,
stop losing sight of history,
oh my dear island folk.
migration's not a new thing;
it's the egg of your yoke.
so see beyond the sea wall
and bridge the fucking moat

difference

they say there's seven sins, but i lost count:

sins soak into my skin and spill out through my mouth,

drip into my saliva, and trickle down my throat,

filling every last inch of me up until i choke.

like tar in the air, blistering my lungs,

clogging up my arteries til i can't run, or even walk anymore,

just sit down and stare, and shake my head at all we've done.

see, we've been here before; we never really left.

humans and war, forever best friends,

destined to stick right together til the end,

walking the earth, hand in hand.

so hold my hand tight, sink down to your knees,

and bury your head in the sand with me.

they say there's seven sins, but i lost count.

see, you and me are different; that'll never change.

the problem's your religion - our god ain't the same.

the problem's in your pigment - our skin doesn't match.

the problem's in your short skirt, that begged me to snatch

at whatever i could get even though you said no.

the problem with equality is: everybody knows that

you and me are different, and i'm gonna show you

that my way is better, that you are below me,

my people are stronger, we're the ones who belong here,

my words are the bombs here, so watch as they fall down..

they say there's seven sins, but i lost count.

as i walk the streets, sins lying all around,

like fallen leaves, cushioning my feet,

softly beckoning me to sleep:

"come, lay your head down, now, close your eyes.

forget what you saw, go back to your life.

coffee, bar, romance, clothes: sleep tight.

yeah, you and your friends are gonna be alright."

but we've been here before; we never really left.

always building walls up to protect us,

walls around only the ones we select,

walls that keep our hearts bereft

of empathy for the ones we're not,

for the ones who weren't born with our lot.

and we tell ourselves that they didn't earn it,

that it's their fault, and we turn.

cos you and me are different; don't tell me we're not.

there's no room here for immigrants - we're full right up.

we're too busy consuming, consume, don't stop

to think about who made it all, and what they got paid,

and how much oil and coal were burnt on the way,

and the countries that they're from, and the part we played

in centuries past, to make it this way.

they say there's seven sins...

yeah you and me are different; don't tell me we're not.

the problem's who you're sleeping with - see, sex has got to be

a man with a women, and while we're on the point,

you're the sex that you're born with; you've got no choice.

your body should conform, and so should your voice,

your size, your shape, your ability.

the problem with you is, you're different from me.

they say there's seven sins, but all i wanna count

is the small things i can do something about,

and the people that i love, who are different from me,

and the people they love, who i ain't never seen.

and i'll keep my eyes open to the shit storm around,

but somehow i can't let it hold me down.

their difference is a chance for me to learn.

their difference is a chance for you to learn.

so to speak

we're sitting here in an old cafe
chairs upholstered, tables low
holding onto the handles of coffee cups
you're talking about what you did yesterday
but neither of us seems to be listening
my mouth moves and sounds come out
i put coffee in to keep them down

you know it's useless anyhow
you've heard it before
from somebody else
what could i say that you wouldn't know
and i'm all ears but no questions
i want to hear what you think and want
what's going on in the bottom of your heart
but i don't know where to start
and the creeping thought that you might be bored
has frozen up my throat, my lips
i don't know what to say
but my body's already talking, so to speak,
and i don't want to interrupt

see the tension across my shoulders
like a wall at the top of my back
how they creep up towards my ears
and curl in towards each other
as if they're sheltering something dear
i'm not sure what's in there
but i'm sure it must be wrong
it's crouching, it's ready to defend,
it's convinced
that if you see it
you'll be disappointed
and think you knew it all along
it can't bear the idea you wont like it
it's mad at you already in anticipation

and you hear all this, so to speak
and you make a joke
and put your arm around me
hey little fella, lurking in there
knock knock
who's there?
it's okay, i like you.
and the shoulders drip like candle wax
back down towards my bum on the chair
and some part of me knows
you don't care what I say
everything's fine
and candle wax trickles down my spine
and melted muscles tell my ears and my mouth
so to speak
that they don't need to worry what to talk about

busy

people mass, city breathes
magnets pull, busy streets
from far away
looks like constant flow
hypnotic rhythms
stop and go

but further in
zoomed up close
see her over there,
eyes open but vacant stare
she's moving alright
but only half of her's there
other half's already where
she's going to
and isn't sure if she cares
enough to make it

or see him on the bench
looking up at his mate
jerky movements
all elbows and angles in haste
keeps looking over his shoulder
case anyone's watching -
not sure if he wants them
to or not,
not sure what he wants
and you better not fucking ask
just leave me alone
i don't need your advice alright?

or that one holding their kid's hand tight
watching the lights -
red means stop,
and now we can go
these are the rules kiddo
that's what we do
just follow me and you'll be okay.
and then later,
when the kid's asleep
stares empty at moving shapes on TV

people mass, busy streets
get your coffee to go, get your train
check your facebook and messages,
check them again,
check your bag is held in close
keep your head looking down
and your headphones in

and you're only allowed to stand still on the street
if you're waiting for someone or a bus or at traffic lights
or holding a phone or a fag in your hand
red means stop, green means go
you need to keep moving now,
don't be too slow

she said she ain't got time to see me
i said no one's got time
time's got us
wrapped around it's little finger
warped with space in lines and curves
that quiver like a rubber band
almost as fast as light but not quite -
and if the speed of time
is relative to the speed of an object -
and if the object's place in space
depends on how fast you're moving -
why don't you try slowing down
and see how the world looks that way?

she said i feel like i'm running
just to stand still
i said put on your shoes
and get out the door
feel the air on your cheeks
your feet on the floor
of these precious streets
and this precious ball
that we call earth
even if it will always feel flat to you -
you don't need to think of that -
you need to feel
the strength of your muscles
the angles of bones
a pounding heartbeat
and full-up lungs
the power of going as fast as you can
until it feels like it was enough
and exhausted, you can let yourself stop
and sink into wherever you land
and i'll be waiting
with a glass of water in hand
and we'll watch the rhythms in constant flow
and we'll decide when it's time to go

spin

it was just a coincidence we met that day:
two points in one time,
two times in one place.
worlds spin towards each other, and spin away,
and as you turn,
shadows creep over your contours, your face
leave no trace behind of moments
where such strong light did seem to shine
on what i thought i saw,
what i thought was you,
but almost so much light as to blind.

and slowly, my gravity distorts,
axis quivers, shifts,
can’t resist
the pull towards,
that twists my orbit a bit too much,
as if my spin isn't stable enough
on its own.

worlds spin towards each other, and spin away.
world's spin together, and mine will sway
and slide
a slow and sweet descent,
that gradually picks up pace and gathers speed,
until eventually
plummets and drags in everything else that matters,
all matter sucked in, indiscriminately,
eyes black holes cannot see
anyone else down here
except you and me,
and we’re not sure
who is who
and who’s gravity,
whose lines and contours,
whose shadows came first.
worlds spin so close
that down here i can’t even see you at all,
only how you fit to me.

stop.
i cannot
do this to you or me.
worlds spin together, and spin away,
and maybe i can't see you for a few days.
maybe i need some time
alone
without the nose-dive, arms out, tail high, full flight
into someone else's life.
this time i’m going to fall
down the well of the inside.

this is not
an orbit around you;
it's just a beat i'm moving to,
one rhythm, split to many sounds:
two hands, two feet, two shoulder blades,
two eyes, two knees, two sides of my own symmetry,
one spine running down between,
my very own axis, i spin around,
two halves, firmly on the ground.

two sides and don't they stretch out far,
and aren't these legs just full of power,
one spine and didn't my neck grow tall,
and doesn't my breath reach down so deep.
this is a place that i can keep.

this is a place that feels like home,
that feels like peace-full glide
of ocean whale, huge and slow,
cannot fall,
held by water's ebb and flow.
this is a place that i've always had
and i'll lose it but i'll always come back.
worlds spin towards each other and spin away
and i'm more interested in swimming today.
this is not am orbit around you.

still nothing

Slanted rays of wintry sun,
pale fingers that reach through patchy layers of cloud,
that mix every possible shade of white and grey and blue,
that guide your eyes to slip and slide over miles and miles.
Sounds come like prickles in the landscape, thinned by so much empty space,
that each sound seems wrapped up tin foil, crackles hollow when it reaches your ears.
Tree tops bare in quiet sway, waiting calm through empty wintry days,
where stopping is just a necessary phase,
before leaves will grow again.

Danny said: I am not afraid of death.
I’ve gazed right into nothingness,
and all it is, is nothing less than a long sigh of relief,
a finally fallen leaf,
released from the lifeline branch to float and sink down in the breeze of chance,
and settle somewhere new.

Andi said: the trees look so beautiful today. The soft sunlight. The branches. A movement that delights the eyes.

Danny said: I’ve tried and tried to prove myself;
you won’t believe all that I’ve achieved,
but all the time it haunted me,
the ghost of productivity:
what’ve you done? What’ve you done?
Where you going to?
What you got to show?

Andi said: this seems like a wonderful place to sit for a while.
I know you always want to know what to do.
But I’d love to stay here.
Danny won’t care anyway; they're explaining again.

Danny said: I’ve tried so hard to prove I’m worth
the salt on anybody’s table,
and only after so many years have I finally been able
to see that all my precious salt is worth nothing at all;
that I belong in the end to the sea.
But where before it frightened me,
to wonder what it’s all for,
to drift in space like tumbleweed,
to see that there’s no point at all –
where before it drained my energy,
left it puddled on the floor at my feet,
now it seems to set me free.

Andi said: you seem a bit tense.
Are you worried about something?
Why don’t you come and sit a while?
It’s warm here.
The morning sun has poured into the long grains of this bench’s wood,
and melted scores of moments
where other people sat and stood,
and passed the time here on this spot,
a pew to silent memories
that we can almost touch.
Come and sit.

Danny said: I’m everything and nothing, simultaneously.
All that I touch will disappear,
including you and me.
We’ve never been quite here before,
and it’ll never be again.
We’ll lose it, it’s slipping away:
it’s already begun.

Andi said: look at the way the light catches the needles of the fir trees,
like tongues of fire –
as if the whole tree might go up in flames.
Do you think the birds know?

Danny said: We’ve already lost our entire lives, faded out of reach.
Remember when we were kids,
when we climbed the great old apple tree,
planks of wood, and hammer and nails in hand,
grand plans of what we’d make.
Never the concept that we’d failed,
when our plans took a different shape.
And then life was defined by how many times
we could kick a football back and forth, me to you,
without letting it touch the ground.
Moments that we occupied,
without stopping to think they’d ever end.
Or the time we lay on the living room floor,
when mum had gone away,
listening in the fading evening light after school to radiohead’s the bends,
when listening was the only language we had back then
to share the sadnesss we both felt
at all that had already had to end.
Moments of closeness,
moments of peace.
Moments where something felt in place, against all odds.
All these moments are already lost.

Andi said: sometimes I think that wood can breathe.
Have you ever laid on the forest floor
and watched the trunks of tall pine trees rock to and fro,
as if the strongest things of all
are in the end as fragile as straw?
And how much straw can you grasp in one hand,
as you walk through the fields?
And where will you leave it when you pass back to homeward streets?

Danny said: I’m slowly dying, every day.
There’s a great emptiness that lurks inside,
like a lake that reaches far wider
than my skin could ever hold,
and only rarely have I ever stood
on that shore and looked across,
fear that I always had
of being swallowed up and dragged in whole.
And like everyone else,
I tried to cover it up,
to fill the void with talking and talking and people and things.
But now I know I have to jump in,
that the lake is sorrow and endings and lack,
is sadness at what never was
and what will never come back,
is loss and loss and the pain of you and me and everyone else.
And whenever you stop for long enough
to hear the way you breathe,
there’s a loneliness that you can’t explain and cannot bear,
and you talk and eat and drink and smoke
but it’s always waiting there underneath.
And wherever you are,
you could always be somewhere else.

Andi said: I like it here. I wonder how far we can see right now.
You know, I prefer to face backwards when I travel by train,
to watch the landscape, the sky and everything in between,
as they slowly recede into the distance.
Suddenly appear in your window like out of nowhere,
and then hang there like lamps that gently sway,
and gradually, silently shrink and fade,
and you don’t even notice the moment,
when they’re no longer there anymore,
as if they slip off the edge of the world.

Danny said: you know there’s no point in any of this.
All our little stories and schemes,
all your plans and all your dreams,
everything that lights you up and gets you out of bed each day,
will crumble quicker than you’d ever believe.
But I’m not afraid of nothingness.
I know I need to slow down and rest.
I need to leave more time to digest

the days and days and what you said.
I know if I can be comfortable

with endings and loss and letting go,
then all of my days will be lighter,
and I would be able to choose for now,
and not be quite so weighed down

with trying so hard to grip onto things
that will only last a fraction of the sun.

Andi said: when all is quiet, the quietness grows and fills the sky

as if your eyes could reach way up there,
brush the tops of the trees and spires,
as if your feet follow and settle

on the brow of the farthest hill your eyes can pick out,

and the space between is empty and full,
and you’re here and there,
in ploughed up soil and asphalt street,
and though it might seem to contradict,
this state when you’re split to here and there, far and wide
is when there’s no extra thoughts in your mind.
And those moments seem so rich and full,
I could write about them for days on end.

Danny said: I want to be quiet.

Andi said: … .

girl boy

i was born into a pattern:
a perfect order
of girl-boy-girl-boy,
all two years apart,
patterns of colours, clothes, talk, and toys,
a neat system of clits and cocks,
spread out between my siblings and i.

/ tell me, do you see my clit? do you see my cock? /

i grew into patterns
of fights, football, bikes and trees,
of primary school boy-gangs and girl-gangs,
of all-year-round shorts and t-shirts,
bare feet on the grass and stones,
and stony silence when there was anger
and violence in the kitchen, on the stairs,
and closing inside to find small spaces of safety,
where there was quiet.

/ tell me, do you hear my quiet? /

i grew into patterns
of girl-boy-girl-boy,
now here, now there,
now short-long hair,
now boy-talk about girls
and menstrual blood and masturbation,
with six-pack competitions and
making fun of each other,
proving our place;
now girl-talk about boys
and bras, shaving and lotion,
me desperately trying to work out their rules,
and taking showers together after high-school sport,
where we all kept our underwear on,
because this was England.

i grew into dancing with my hips
for the constant male gaze,
into skating and breakdance in baggy pants,
taking on the male gaze,
into jumps and splits in a growing maze
of inside-outside, this side, that side,
not sure where i belong,
trying to decide,
and a tendency to drift
into corners and distance
when i wasn't sure.

/ tell me, do you see my gaze? /

i grew into other peoples' patterns,
their rules, their desires, my second guesses,
falling
into their ways
of girl-boy-girl-boy:
now 'masculine' and proud of it,
but not too much, not too butch,
stay soft around the edges;
now 'feminine': just try it on,
this side that's been neglected.
so despite trying to dare, trying not to care,
falling
from one person to another,
never landing in between,
shifting out of myself
to fit something safe,
falling into social patterns
that keep the genders clean.
you see, the idea of rejection or disapproval
still made those small parts of me afraid.

/ but tell me, is falling safe? /

i grew into falling,
until i couldn't stand
the twists and splits in my only me,
couldn't think or feel or breathe:
lost in other people's space.

i grew into my clit-cock-muscles-tits,
my butch-fem, sub-dom,
to and from the other side,
where there is no other, no side,
no pride, no shame,
just a human, being, moving, breathing,
with short-long hair on my head
with hair in my pits and on my legs
with the muscles i always wanted,
arms packed, abs tight,
not trying to be nice,
with a wide stance, leaning back as i talk,
and a definite swagger, eyes high as i walk,
with men's underwear and shower gel -
which after all is just a smell -
and with clothing picked from both sides
of your precious gender divide.
and since i embraced what people might read
as my masculinity,
since i stopped trying to prove it
and just let it shine through,
well my feminine sits more easily,
as if maybe i'm just quite a camp guy
or maybe it's different every day.

and sometimes people call me sir
or sir and then madam
or stop halfway through
don't know what to say at all
and sometimes it's funny
like the whole thing's a game
and sometimes the confusion on their faces
is like a quietly creeping shame
that crawls under my skin
and I want to explain
that some boxes are too limiting
that none of it has to matter
it's all up for grabs

see, i grew out of your patterns,
a silent blaze of fuck your rules, i don't want to play.
this girl-boy split doesn't fit my skin,
doesn't fit the subtlety of a human, being,
who isn't a computer code, a set of binaries,
of ones and zeros, zero, one, zero, one, out to infinity. please.
the one is the zero, is neither, and both.
the patterns are see-though and solid, are split and whole.

i'll keep growing, into a human: being, doing, dreaming,
with my own desires, my own daring,
my own calm, and caring,
my ideas and energy,
my perception, imagination,
my own power on my own two feet.

/ i see your patterns, but don't put them on me. /