My Mother Doesn't Like Me Much

A collection of poetry spanning multiple genres.

Today

Dear please insert your name here,

I must tell you about the day I have had today because quite frankly out of all the days that have ever dayed, this day was quite frankly the dayest day ever, and it was such a day that it in fact carried a small little undercurrent of air beneath my trotters and I walked rather melodically with a bounce in my step and not once did I then touch the ground which is quite worrying if you think about it because what comes up must come down and a day can only last for so long because what if the next day doesn’t day like todays day dayed and I come hurtling into the earth like a comet wiping out a stegosaurus because the aforementioned small current of air has decided that the dayest day is over and days like today are special and happen only very rarely.

Goodnight and sincerest regards,

Please insert relevant metaphorical noun here.

Aubade: The Encore

Good morning my Sunshine, your sunlight

glaring through the dust stained window of my studio

apartment as you

enter stage left, the moon’s curtain call calling you up.

The debutant of the day.

The mysterious case of the missing woman in the moonlight.

Yet, in the presence of mother moon, you are still present,

with your glow illuminating my face as she bows down.

O a show-off, centre of attention,

commanding my attention,

lamenting yourself between the layers of days as you seep

like butter on the half-eaten croissant in my hand;

and I stare through the dust specs dancing

to the songs you play on repeat.

Figure 1: A broken heart

Conversion Therapy

Work it girlfriend, slay the day

for the aids will wash the gay away.

A bitch to one, bitch to another,

The Father, Son and Holy Mother.

I bury my tongue deep in the closet

where only my dearest can try and find it

and when it comes out, it is met with rage,

and not the embrace of a mother’s praise.

Her wig snatched far, her guilt exposed,

my suitcase zipped tightly along the road –

though the wheels stick to the ground like honey,

because the way I speak is “oh so funny”.

Yet, the road ahead is straight and narrowed,

littered with the corpses of gay men, hallowed.

Fag

I rummage amongst my bag to search for the keys to my car. He glares through the beating rain, the illuminated backlight of the doorway hiding his expression, his eyes hunting his prey. He brings the cigarette to his lips, loading his gun and steadying his aim.

The trigger, pulled.

I watch around the flickering flame as his lips slowly caress the end of the cigarette as it locks onto its target, the end sizzling so sumptuously, glowing in an amber warmth. The sterling silver in its eyes, the sovereign glow of the back lit floodlight, illuminating the pounding rain as I stand, fumbling for my keys.

Then the smoke.

It curdles through the raindrops, tainting each one with humorous remarks. The lips from which it bellows smirk, folding outwards as the thick clouds engulf me, suffocating the air and shouting my name.

Fuck. I dropped my keys.

The blackening rain holds me down, each droplet kicking my lowly corpse. The cigarette falls to the floor, hissing in the puddles as I crawl towards it. I pull it towards me, fingering the end, hoping to feel the burning ash on the tips of my fingers. Yet all that is left is the disappointment of the cold dirt, the searing heat dissipating into burning cold. I reach for my keys and through the wetness of my clothing, sweep the dirt from my body.

The smoke dispels as I stand, the silence masked by the beating drums of rain around. The fag is finished and wet.

Searching for the words

Don't forget to be grateful, Scott

Heavy rain smells. Hot chocolate under the porch. The fish looking up at their sky rippling in the pond of my grandparent’s garden. Games. Board games. Love games. Bad romance novels. Lady Gaga albums. Amethyst. Rose quartz. Jade. Cologne left over in a hallway. Oversized jumpers. Barefoot walking. Chlorine on my skin. Libra men. Cancer women. Saluting magpies. Shiny things. Pat Butchers earrings. Oozing cheese. Smoking chimneys. Tea. Coffee. Rosewater. Horticulture. Poetry. Prose. Pop culture. Sweet and salty popcorn. Movie marathons. Musical chairs. Sitting down after a long day at work.

The embrace of a mother’s hug.