unfinished reading

On my bed, there is a detective novel entitled The Dead that
I am three chapters into reading; after the boredom of the first
Two, the words are bleeding into each other but, I’m determined
To find out who killed that prostitute.

In the kitchen, balanced on the toaster, is a collection of poetry,
The title of which I forget. I seem to have cherry-picked the best
Bits and discarded the rest with the loose intention of finding out
What the other writers wanted to say.

On the dining room table you’ll find Shakespeare’s Collected Works
That has been treated unkind, the binding is fragile, unstable. I left
It to rest on the table with the intention of finding out if there was
Method in Hamlet’s madness.

On the wall in my study, at eye-level, so when I rise it’s the first
Thing there to greet my eyes is a post-it. Will you ever finish a book? 

to my pet

I may not understand how you sleep for twenty hours out of the
Day but do not for a second think that I judge you for it. If anything,
I adore it. In a similar fashion to how I adore that high-pitched
Bark that emerges from between your square-set jaw every time
I rest a treat on the floor and tell you to wait a second before you
Devour it. Something that I do not adore, but am somewhat
Jealous of, is your ability to find a wonderful scent in the most
Disgusting of things. Your olfactory abilities put mine to shame
And while I breeze through life smelling everything the same, you
Rediscover the smell of grass every time you go outside. In the
Same way you discover the scent of meat every time we sneak
Half of our dinner out of a restaurant for your dining pleasure too.
I swear, you eat better than some humans do. I don’t understand
Dog greeting, and how it becomes appropriate to sniff someone
Else’s junk upon meeting but hey, it’s just your way. I suppose the
Saving grace is that you’re usually the one being sniffed so, at
Least your nose is clean. I love that you have an intrinsic ability to
Just know when one of us needs a reassuring lick on the arm; in
The same way that we know, when you move to the little sofa to
Be on your own, you do not want to be cuddled, but that’s part
Of your charm. I don’t understand how someone who can’t speak
Has become the best company for me throughout the day; how
Someone who doesn’t comprehend language can always pinpoint
The right thing to say; how someone, who isn’t even a someone,
Has become one of my favourite someones in the world. I don’t
Understand how anyone could ever look into those eyes and
Willingly hurt you, or desert you, do anything but love you. I
Don’t understand how we got so lucky, to have such a perfect pet.

why must we rhyme all the time

If there is anything about literature that I truly hate,
It’s the effort that it takes us to try and negotiate
Rhyming words into the closing of parallel lines.
I’m honestly asking you this: Who has the time?
You might find that your poem fits and flows better,
If you stop worrying about the final cluster of letters,
If you stopped forcing unwilling images to come out,
And if you stopped filling your lines with so much self-doubt.
So when you next think of a rhyme that doesn’t fit, show it,
Because a poem doesn’t fit a rhyme, a poem fits the poet.

a mid-afternoon anti-climax

She had been sat on the park bench for two hours, thirty-
Two minutes and approximately fifty-one seconds when the
Man, who had been circling the park for twenty-eight minutes,
Asked her if the end of the seat was free. It could have been
The start of a Match.com advert, easily. All they needed was
Some soft guitar sounds in the background and a cameraman
To catch her smile at a suggestive angle and it would have
Been ready for television. Unfortunately the scene was only
Privy to my vision but, it certainly gave me some romantic
Hope. He asked her if she smoked. She smiled and no as he
Awkwardly slipped the pack of Mayfair smooth back in his
Pocket; although his lighter falling in between the grooves of
The bench kind of ruined the subtlety. She inadvertently
Smiled at me but, we both knew she was really smiling at him.
He told her he was trying to quit and she said, You’re not doing
A very good job of it with another smile, and something that
Looked like a wink, although it could have been a confused
Blink. She didn’t seem like the winking type. He asked her
What her name was and I didn’t catch but whatever it was,
He thought it was nice. He didn’t say so but you could tell;
The way he echoed her, the way it fell from his lips, it was
A name that his tongue liked to say. I’m Stephen, Stephen
Grey he said with a handshake, which was a mistake; one
Does not shake hands when one is cruising in a park. I
Watched them for one hour, forty-three minutes and
Twenty-nine seconds. As the sun started to fall asleep it
Soon became apparent their love bubble would soon thrust
Them back into the open world. The question all stories seem
To end with, does the boy get the girl? He took out his wallet,
Withdrew a business card, and paused for a moment to look
 At her hard. There was something beautiful about a woman
In fading sunlight. Nah, she said, You’re alright. It’s been nice
Talking though, have a wonderful night.

With thanks to Macklemore

“Can’t you take some of the knowledge you have and like, convert it into the knowledge that your sister has?”

Little did I know that those words would ring in my ear for at least
A year after they had been spoken. My Grandfather, raised on numbers
And brick-laying, probably didn’t really know what he was saying when
He told me be more like my sister. Because what he was really telling
Me to do was ignore the voice in my head that tells me to write; to
Ignore the metaphors that keep me awake at night and the similes,
That I’m always trying to complicate. What he was really telling me to
Do was go against the grain of my brain, disregard the years I had spent
Reading books and absorbing techniques and swap it for a future in
Numbers, which would be bleak, but admittedly more fiscal. What
My Grandfather really wanted was for me to make a career, rather
Than spend my best years writing poetry that the majority of the world
Will never hear, and the few the do, probably won’t even like. He didn’t
Want me to waste a life. But…

“A life lived for art is never a life wasted.”