tynedaile

A bottle of wine sits on my desk
staring at me with those red, red
vinegary eyes.
Daring me to go on
daring me to sing along
to the tune of decoration
and endless elaboration.
“Look at me,” it says
“I’m patient and I did it,
You can do it if I can.”
It seems simple enough,
let the words stand alone for a bit
don’t be hasty,
bottle them,
close the door behind you
and come back in a week.
Things will be better then.
A nice body of work is
like a nice bottle of wine.
Or so they say.
I tend to agree really,
I just prefer to get drunk
sooner rather than later.

3 comments

April 4, 2010

Facebook

by tynedaile

Kate spent most of the afternoon
Reading over and over the letter

Michael took the trash outside
And noticed he was getting older

Sarah just baked a chocolate cake-
Her cooking is getting better

Your glare got me like battery acid
As you peered over your shoulder.

April 2, 2010

Great men

by tynedaile

I’m sorry
I’m sleeping
with other
people.
Last week it
was Kafka.
Last night it
was Joyce.
I’m having a
drink with Tolstoy
tonight and
I can’t
guarantee
it will stop
there.
Please don’t read
too much
into it.
I still
love you.

2 comments

March 31, 2010

Decay (of all sorts)

by tynedaile

My fridge broke
and it reminded me
of my mind.
Not that I have
a broken mind,
just that
all the rotting
food in there looked
so desperately
sad;
the cheese that
was meant for
something
great
and the
soup
that someone
had spent
so
damn
long
cooking.
Even the
milk, in
its $2.20
carton,
was screaming out
for help.
Suddenly I regretted
spending so much
time on Foucault.
I mean, at
least
Chaucer is a
non-perishable.

1 comment

March 29, 2010

Train home tonight

by tynedaile

Doors open and close
In their plangent lament

Two soggy chips on the
Chair next to me nap

A vandal scratches glass
To the beat of a chorus

Someone smells of Chanel
Not the no 5 though

On gets a businessman
With eyes like lacerations

Screening your call
I smile like a duchess.

2 comments

March 27, 2010

If our love opened a restaurant

by tynedaile

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

The décor would be a nightmare.
Clashing tones and tints competing
With lampshades something ill

Sitting patiently for a waiter to
Take your order would be like
Waiting for the next apocalypse

The chairs would grate against your
Soul like Monday morning, with its
Hard reality and lack of support

The music, (if they have any at all)
I imagine would be like Grandma’s
Lounge-room jazz- but more dreary

Don’t expect a warm smile with
Your service. The waiters are busy
And don’t have time to amuse.

If our love opened a restaurant
I seriously doubt it would stay
In business longer than a month

But did I mention the food?
Oh! The food is positively divine.

2 comments

March 25, 2010

From experience

by tynedaile

Try writing the word
Loneliness
When you’re really
Truly
Alone.

The letters stretch like
Highways
In a city that isn’t
Your
Own.

7 comments

March 23, 2010

Friday shiraz

by tynedaile

Reflect.
Not too hard.
Thoughts aren’t cheap.
While it breathes,
undo your top two buttons.
Fire off a text or two.
Ponder the wordy label.
Check the fridge for cheese.

With the first sip,
be classy.
Swirl and glare or
you’ll forget what it feels like.
Sit down.
Take your damp boots off.
It tastes better that way.

While you wait for company,
don’t sigh.
Text someone else.
Put an album on.
Think about how tired you are,
how tired you’ll be
after just. one. glass.

As you unwind,
sip slowly.
Roll your head around.
Sing badly and casually.
Top the glass up.
Open a window.
Don’t rush it.
Meditate to the velvet.

When you’re half a bottle in
and the doorbell rings,
don’t hurry towards it.
Be calm.
Smooth your fringe and
check your teeth in the mirror.
Feel the scarlet syrup
linger.
Take a second or two longer than
necessary.
Open the door.
Begin.

3 comments

March 21, 2010

Postgraduate

by tynedaile

I’m stepping over books
That smell like rotting onions
And since the authors of them
Are now dead, I’m hopping
Over books that smell like
Rotting onions and since the
Authors of them are now
Forgotten I’m jumping on
The books that smell like
Rotting onions.

March 19, 2010

Sometimes i wish

by tynedaile

Sometimes I wish I could charge you
As easily as I charge my phone
Charge you up with life
Charge you for it
Charge at you
And spill
Your coffee
And your
Smiles

4 comments

March 17, 2010

Upon realizing the lies will continue

by tynedaile

The thought hit me like a
Fist to the neck
So I rolled over, gently
And let the sheet fall
From off one shoulder
A small wave, lapping at my side

Your lips met my back like
Little sea babies, drenched
And salty, pressing their
Bodies into the sand
To dry off
To cover something up

There are only so many words
Available to us now
And I’ve used them all up
They’re washed up on the
Twilight shore
Rotting away like whales.

2 comments

March 16, 2010

Overnight loan only

by tynedaile

If i got locked in the library
overnight
i don’t think I’d try to get
as much reading in as possible.

I wouldn’t attempt to erase the
fines I’ve accumulated and i
certainly wouldn’t exploit the
opportunity to do some photocopying.

I’d find that one elusive book
the one that is always on loan
and hide it safely away under a
big, lofty oil painting on the fifth floor.

March 13, 2010

Orange bag

by tynedaile

I left an orange in my bag, oops
The mess was horrific
Over lining, zips, and flaps

For days and weeks,
Everything I owned smelt like fruit
Everywhere i went was fruit

Libraries became orchards
And bedrooms became an
Endless garden of Eden

My mood began to ripen
As i forgot about
Fruitless, damaging things.

7 comments

March 12, 2010

Noughts and Crosses

by tynedaile

The little girl next to me
is playing noughts and crosses
by herself.
I’m not quite sure who’s winning
but she’s a skillful player.
She doesn’t know i’m watching,
probably because she’s
concentrating
twice as hard.
Noughts went first last game,
now it’s crosses.
I’m eager to interrupt, offer a
spare set of hands,
a new perspective.
But then again, maybe the rest of us
have been playing it wrong
all along.

7 comments

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Follow “the sieve and the sand”