Lost tattoo

By Adam Gibson ©


i've had this tattoo on my leg for almost 18 years
and i sometimes see it and can't believe it's there
when i catch a glimpse and see the black outline
and then run my finger over what still seems like
the fresh bump of ink
and marvel at the fact that
for all these days and months and years
through everything i have and haven't done
it has been with me
imprinted there
and i still don't know quite what it means
just as i still don't know what anything else means
and it is ageing as i do
with no clear path
just a muddled-onward sketch
a mud-map outline of a vaguely-held design
open to interpretation
with only the slimmest connection
to its original origin.

Battlelines

By Adam Gibson ©

you moved from this coast to another
just like changing shirts

and you could break the back of
any single thing that
might make the
most innocent mistake of
deciding to love you

you, my shell-breaker pliers
you, my salt-mouthed gypsy
who finds no solace
in the lines of any palm

our battlelines are shown
in their secret betrayal
on the arches of our foreheads

we've been spending so much money
the dollars are pouring out
like grain from broken silo

and we have hardly
anything left to give

Kicking off again

I am resurrecting this "poem of the week" project I did for a couple of years a few years ago.

The plan is to post at least one "finished" poem each week. We'll see how long it lasts.

The first new one is below, 'The Silent Treatment'

The Silent Treatment

I see the world through
salt-coated glasses
that crystalised film of our
southerly-busted days
the yellow mornings you said you loved me
the afternoons I knocked you back

The things that go on between you and I
should not be publicly revealed
nor should they be privately discussed
in any form

I need an embargo on
my heart strings being plucked
I need a moratorium on
the silent treatment
you give me in the car when
you think you know it all and
I used an evidence-based argument
to prove you don't

The world still finds itself turning
the rusted axis deep through the core
somehow still grinds through its gears

We use footnotes to explain our actions
the index to find our dreams

To be whoever it is you want me to be
is a damn sight harder
than it seems.

Apologies for no recent updates ... i have taken a break from regular postings but may one day return. Stay tuned. And go to www.blindingsunlight.com for latest news
- Adam

Cracking but true

By Adam Gibson ©

i will wash a sleeping tablet down
with a large glass of beer –
that will get a cheer from
my liver or at least my kidneys
or miscellaneous other organs
that flush inside my blood

i will break open one of these days
and maybe it will be in poland,
maybe i will crack in cracow,
fall apart,
my face gone red,
sprawled on a bed,
looking for my dream
which is lost between the
mattress and the wall

(this is from my chapped-lip days –
you could boil an egg on my top lip –

and what is that girl doing right now,
she with straight teeth and freckled nose?)

x-ray my heart,
open it up for full examination,
make that phone call to the specific radiologist
and let her know my heart is
lying on the table patiently, ready.

i need to detox,
i need to gather stock and either
find my pure path again or
jump right out the window
when do i tail off these anti-depressants anyway?

is the great coast home of my imagination
just something i have imagined?
life is passing.
when will i have children?

i have no hinge to even undo,
i have no ground from which to lose touch with,
i'm eating bad food but at least
i have stopped biting my nails

but i am drinking a lot of beer
but where is honey barbara?
the woman in the trees?

i find these silly paths to follow,
these stupid people to try to be.
if you be yourself
then is whatever else follows true?

"Six"

By Adam Gibson ©

After a night spent cleaning pots
at the Duckpond Cafe,
her hair smells of cauliflower.
It's a childhood smell like wet dog,
station wagon holidays and
sand around the ankles.

Suddenly she is six again,
there is cricket on TV.
The taste of oleander is in her mouth
and is her first remembered mistake.

Suddenly again, she is in school,
her first short-socked day with plaits.
The teacher smells of biscuits and
leans to ask her name and age.
"Rebecca" she says, and bites her lip
and looks around the room.
She's five-years-old but can count to ten
and likes the sound of seven.

"And how old are you Rebecca?" the teacher says
and Rebecca says: "Seven"

She's moved up a class
and can't keep up and is
shortest in the form.
She leaves in Year 10 and
hits the drink and
soon her first kid is born.
She gets a job working nights
at the Duckpond Cafe.
She's a kitchen hand and
the work is okay
but she often recalls that
stupid day
when she bumped up her age,
rose a year up to seven...

What would've only panned out
if only she'd just said "six".

Beware

By Adam Gibson ©
beware of cars with hats behind the back seat

beware of girls with hip-length hair

beware of days with still still mornings

beware of funk bands

beware of those who are silent on politics

beware of journalists

beware of 'team players'

beware of the westerly

beware of nylon shower curtains that stick to your shins

beware of those who don't leave messages on answering machines

beware of moths

beware of "Ciao"

beware of endings

beware of full stops (.)

In trouble

By Adam Gibson ©

 my mother stood on the

corner of the street

in an aqua blue dressing gown

and all the way

from the gate of the park

you knew her face

held a dressing down

Baggage

By Adam Gibson ©

i'm bringing my baggage with me

this new epoch has traces of the old

i'm bringing my baggage with me

it's backpack-sized

it doesn't fold.