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swimming in it

our time is a curved horizon that curves until it doesn’t i swam in my time resisting the urge to paddle  a hundred thoughts churned and each limb itched to move i sank in my time and a memory came of a loud clock in a silent room - the smell of the dust of old things  and then the relief of a TV too loud and time being just what’s left of the current temporary thing i have feared the time of old age  understimulating and over stimulated an ocean of time but a mind on repeat and oblivious to it  a loud clock to remind you it’s there, but it’s regular tick also signaling it leave  i want to lie in the saline water that holds me still with a mind only for the sky, cold chest and warm face and the music of time that swells long before and after my body is within it   
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Toll Men

there is a small stone bridge between two towns that has a two man toll both. 5p to pass.  two old  guys sit side by side - one with a liverpool fc cap, love on the knuckles and status quo in the soul - his colleague is made of gravel and fingers fixed in a heavy crane claw.  we wonder how much they make - fists of 5 pence pieces - £100 a day? £500 a week? we joke that they blow the £500 each weekend on booze, drugs and women.  and then monday morning arrives. They meet at the toll box. Each at their own door. the river black with a milky mist head.  and  it starts again with a single 5 pence piece dropped in to a strip club paper cup. 
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Resentment

there’s a taste in my mouth  that trickled in through my ear along a watered route of chisel marks gathering grit, mud and moss I can’t even remember the words  but I want it to explain this taste so perhaps it’s just the silt of the moments that spilled before there’s no grudge but I’m scratching the sore to find the justification for once feeling another way  to be offered a lifetime of apology from the wrong person
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Dads at home

Dads at home with the blinds shut BBC news livingroom lamp Stained T-shirt and pyjama bottoms hanging The toilet seat is dirty and the oven’s seen a fire He tells me about a long lost friend  She’s been living in America where she made millions Now she’s back to England to look after him - I’ll show you her text, he says  I’m worried that there isn’t going to be a message - worried that he’ll be confused - but he finds it - here you are- The message is from my ex-wife just saying hello She’s found me, he smiles … after all this time He’s on a loop - Speaking with clarity about family, past jobs and partners, but then a fog drops - like forgetting why you came in a room - And he goes back to the same delusion  The slow dissolution of boundaries of his memory- time and faces bleed - mould  is growing in the corners  He tried to save a baby from a fire, but she died He had to clear up the pieces of a suicide inconveniencing commutes, he says An ...
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Fiona

Sunday: I’m turned on by you. Your breast full in my hand, the sweep of the groove of your pelvic bone and the warm home of your corner of the ocean  - calm now, the water flatly bobbing. It’s too soon to be breathless -  to have a mind anywhere other than recovery, so I want to kiss you, feel you, and leave you to rest. I listened to an Irish poet - half listened And I thought he described romantic love between people as two tides meeting, moving away and then together again.  I thought about this - How we romantically and intellectually meet and how we can then be two tides out in our own seas and it’s all temporary. And it’s all constant. Monday: Tommy dreamt of the four of us: You, me, Flynn and him -  Walking up a spiral stone staircase You leaned too far forward to look down and fell He dreams of us, and is worried about you Love and anxiety - hand and glove I’m sorry that you now share some of the melancholy of missing them when they go ...
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