My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac

My Invisible Friend Is An Insomniac

This is my Roundhouse 2013 Slam Competition poem, which managed to win the title along with Ronak Patani (who you should definitely check out) and Ben Norris, who came third. It’s for people who have invisible friends.

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A Kitchen Confessional

You were walls for arguments,

For lines stretched, broken,

words left unspoken,

made into nooses,

that dangled from the lamp.

I watched a hanging body,

every time I ate my cornflakes.

 

Bottles and bruised bananas

littered your table top,

with the odd glamour magazine

and Radiohead CD,

fighting for space

at meal times separated each of us,

desperate for cupboard shelves

like a lot in a graveyard.

 

You were claustrophobia

with an addictive quality.

I chewed tombstones in you

with friends killing their problems

laying them to rest

on the dishcloths

that were always dirty.

 

The washing machine wept

every second of the day,

soaking cautionary socks

on their way to the tumble drier,

that never dried anything,

merely turned the whole place

into a humming rainforest,

where the lakes were stagnant

with fermenting pans, pots, plates,

forest floors strewn with paper

and fungus from under the fridge.

Every so often I would bump

into an adventurer, on an expedition,

after a one night stand admission,

asking me for toast and tea.

 

You were dark and never accepted light,

unless we put it in you,

then you would short circuit,

electrocute us through the toaster,

our eighth malfunctioning house mate

that we always boasted

was a place of laughter.

 

Now all I remember you for

is the kettle wheezing asthma,

non-stop with coffee seeking hands,

in and out the doorway,

before we could open up our interiors.

When Phone Calls Don’t Suit

Lets speak,

shoot the breeze

or wind or tornado

with our vocal shotgun,

hope to kill pigeons,

I will be a high force gale

or south westerly chest

puff if it’s just to whip up

your words for one breath

and hear ‘hello,’ for my hair

is gusted into my eyes

and I must rely

on those trumpets

fastened to my brain

to process and make shapes

to the feelings blowing my way.

Or we could wait til tomorrow,

I’m pretty sure I’m scheduled

a hurricane,

just don’t believe it must be

a whirlwind visit,

I am a rock, after all,

ready for word erosion,

so lets speak.