you sit in my throat like a stone in shoe
eyes dry as bone. bones hurt.
these days that feel different but all so same.
little belly wrenches all the time as though to be freed from something
tonsils i should rip them from my neck. daft neck
neck forever stiff
but why should neck feel at ease when i remain so needlessly static
lose my reasons every day
and think of new
ask yourself what time it is. what day
become like a teddy bear.
apples hurt my mouth but i still eat them.
how life is unfair.
why must i scratch my skin?
not fair on you
to have everything
daffodils. i used to kick their heads off. weak.
it follows me round everywhere.
what’s the point in being alive when you’re dead
how can you sleep when you’re wet
When he was dying, I swallowed a CoCodamol before bedtime as if it were hot chocolate. I craftily attributed my zen-like calm in the face of helping Dad as he pissed blood into a plastic pot at 3am – I don’t know what’s happening to me, he said, again and again – to my sensible study of The Tibetan Book of The Dead. It was a lie, but a lie that helped.
Author website: The Diary I Didn’t Write
of what he once was
are all that sustain him.
He has no hope. His aching
visions of what should have been kill
comfort. What could have been is a lie.
He has no hope. He has no future. He
has only now. Life took revenge for a
life too well lived. He was a man out
of time. Now, there is nothing but
time. Resilient, he bears
it. He will not die. He
will suffer, always.
He will not die.
He does not,
Wedged between sky and river
The birch, plaiting scarred spines, joins
Ochre leaves to Cirrus clouds.
In the wedge of bed and window
Your wounded limbs endure
A throbbing rhythm to misting dew
Autumn wraps a sultry cage
Of alizarin crimson.
She entwines the rising bone
To breach the slough of heaven
Branches thunder and crack
Under heavy snow
And escape still enclosed in
Huey blues Your mind warps
And wraps itself with morphine
(After Tennyson’s ‘The Dying Swan’)
In this wasting plain a
Wedge of swans
Tangle in water
So deep her eyes
In the gyring ferment
I am impotent
Warming blankets only burn
I cannot touch her
I cannot reach her
To this berth I cannot go
Drop around her bed
Swans wedge her in again
Their bowing heads
This churning of webbed feet
In water I cannot enter nor fathom
There is no present no past no future
Only some existence that is now and not now
She would wish to die
I would wish to die
Explicitly she does not wish to die
The room is swirling with the rotation of swans
Specters with no beauty
Shape-shifters leading to another world
No end no beginning
Still outside we hear
In thunder birds
A swirling of swallows
- by Mary Marie Dixon
On Scarborough beach, I played football.
This image is one of my new paintings. It is autobiographical and consists of two halves. One half reflects my early life growing up in Neepsend, an industrial area of Sheffield. The other half depicts me, as a child, on the beach with my football.