Saturday, 21 April 2018

21st April 2018

snakes head fritillaries
shelter from the wind
ripening tulips


© Rachel Green 2018

the silence
of a loft space.
dusty,
filled with the smell
of old mortar
and the gaps between tiles.
Husks of dry flies
clustered in drifts
beneath the windows
and in paper potato sacks
my toy farm and doll's house
among the remnants of exercise books
detailing the life cycle of plants.


© Rachel Green 2018

Friday, 20 April 2018

20th April 2018

seeking sunshine
the cat crushes the celandines
vomits fish


© Rachel Green 2018

I lied once
about a piece of artwork
that wasn't mine
but the work of a fellow student
because I preferred his style to mine.

In late years,
my style evolved
a simplistic, cleaner edge
without the fuss of tones and planes
I was happier with.
He did me a favour, that guy,
five years of art school
condensed into one, ten minute drawing
of a hilltop in Wales.


© Rachel Green 2018

Thursday, 19 April 2018

19th April 2018

first cut of the year
makes the grass grow faster
hidden cat shit


© Rachel Green 2018
John Emerson
sometimes friend,
fell into a new crowd
and started bullying
until one day
I challenged him
a middle-schoolers fight
where gender didn't matter
and I made a valiant attempt
to dig out his kidney
with my bare hands.
A patch of waste ground outside school
with a circle of classmates
cheering and jeering
where one day they'd built a church
where women were unwelcome.


© Rachel Green 2018

Wednesday, 18 April 2018

18th April 2018


daisies
stretching to meet the sunshine
honesty


© Rachel Green 2018

Fuck this. Fuck You
Ann St Johns screams at her dad
because he's banned her from driving
and she needs to party.
Young ladies shouldn't swear.
He speaks against a stream of inventive
from his seventeen year old
foul-mouthed daughter
wondering where he went wrong.
His wife is upstairs
after one of her migraines
and the twelve year old Sally
has turned the telly up
to get past the headphones
she wears for her laptop games.

In another street
in sight of the first
if it wasn't for the old pipe factory,
Emily Matthews threads a needle
and sews her daughter's mouth shut.


© Rachel Green 2018

Tuesday, 17 April 2018

17th April 2018

greengage blossom
stripped from the trees
the shed door, banging


© Rachel Green 2018

Gary was the boy
you couldn't help but like
obnoxious and sexist
at times compassionate and sweet.
He used to rub his hands
over the front of his crotch
and then sniff them
to see if his underpants were clean.
I went out drinking with him once
a dance contest at a local pub.
We were up for first prize
until I vomited pink rum
all over the manager's shoes
but he drove me home
and checked on me in the morning,
sniffing.


© Rachel Green 2018

Monday, 16 April 2018

16th April 2018

glorious sunshine
warms the heads of those below
hillside heather


© Rachel Green 2018

newly divorced
I tried a sex shop
for the first time ever.
Broad Street, Wolverhampton
a few doors down
from the comic shop.
I was my Box of Delights
allowing me the benefit
of generations of experience
until the house was repossessed
and they took away my toys.


© Rachel Green 2018

Sunday, 15 April 2018

15th April 2018

streams of sunshine
dashed out by returning clouds
wood anemones close


© Rachel Green 2018

a visit
to your student digs
after a month spent apart.
One of your housemates
runs a D&D game
where my character
is repeatedly killed.
I begin to suspect.
You seem distracted.
Meaningful looks are exchanged
between the two of you.
I begin to realise
I'm the outsider here.


© Rachel Green 2018