a simple time

tonight the street

is obscured to walk along

by the scents of tea

from the houses of strangers

.

you can see everything

in the artifice of light

that sits in hands

under which lies the moisture of fear

not capable of anything

except maybe one excuse

.

circular island

where the purple flowers,

do come in july,

was leapt over to pace in

listening to a voice for the very first time,

she wears a smile.

.

nothing has breached the soil,

it is june.

the smell of tea is false.

it is other sweet flowers

that bother me.

and I pretend it is tea

.

a mustard mercedes

right up to the bumper of something else

is exactly the right colour

of the street light

and of cider

and his throat

.

I come to deliver valleys

the sharp shades of bone pass

I have become petrified

by dumb fantasies of other days

I have become foolish

on the aroma of cut grass

.

tonight is tomorrow,

and yesterday

and I

am almost constantly lying.

.

he was here the other day

how unhappy is she

as you float over the spectre,

that there was very little to say

.

except I always do

 I make up lives.

because you can’t remember

the pieces you threw

except perhaps maybe

 under which alcoholic hue

.

all the while

in a bar

his skin is losing its calm

and he will come to say

I saw your face

and was grateful

.

but there are no longer faces to see

on the june cider street

no more visions for me

.

you say you felt sick

and temptation quick

hands abjured

for I am adored

if only fiction

were road

and fact

was dirt track

no matter what I walked along,

no matter what was true

I was barefoot in  girlish dreaming

I was deafened by imagined angels song

but I woke and hit my head upon the ceiling

now I’m awake, now I’m back

then I’m gone.

© E.Scott 2011

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Black Knee

She looks albino,

she always did.

and as kids sat

on the doorstep with her sister,

looking like fucking idiots

knickers all showing,

she’d cut her hair.

They’d eaten mud that morning

and she’d stuck gum in my hair

I gave my sister colic

apparently,

when I bid her eat a baby apple.

I hid under my mums bed,

she was twenty five,

and she was going to fucking punch me,

she said

they had a long telephone cord.

she and I pulled at it,

trying to untangle it straight.

‘they’ve been haranguing a goat’

she said bitterly into it.

and when were you to come home?

she didn’t know it

I looked up at the bed slats

and I could see that

my mothers tears had soaked right through

fucking bitch, I said.

I didn’t care about her any more

I poured her silver nail polish all over the floor

and went down to tell my sister

that borstal wasn’t really coming for her.

 

© E. Scott 2012

August Bitterly

he sold me a gypsy ring

its all here

but its all fake

with nitid metal

to cover up the bead holes

he sold me a bead

dressed up

as an antique jewel,

and I knew it.

gather your friends

while the lobster’s still hot

and their steak’s still free

young men grow prosperous.

the struggle

to convert

apparitions of love

into fat reality

turns you into a sylph.

they raise their drinks to her

gratitude strains

each chubby finger

It was still sad

but she knew the trick

and fattening up fools

make them look at you

like a menu

thats low standards,

settling

for the love that the hungry have

temporarily,

for food.

the rebound of the swindle

was that one day,

the slave behind them all

would say:

‘look not so proudly

for the gods are jealous.’

casting me

far out

from god’s house

far above

what god-wrath can see.

look not so proudly,

for they are jealous

and they are hungry.

right up until you died

you did fatten your flesh

with kinship denied

send the lonely to safety,

the monster you love

eats the loveless,

the greedy, smug.

And I,

 was bitterly, alive

fitted with love not supplied,

and I never did believe

in what fat flesh calls hungry.

© E. Scott 2013