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: … .