It takes so little

It takes so little

Hunched over a glass

Full of bitterness

A smell can conjure up an invention.

A delusion of grand design

A fawning distant memory

As real as a waft of Chanel

In a dirty bar

Can take the biscuit

And break it into pieces.

There are few crumbs

Left over from the time before

Sometimes it would be easier

To think of himself as invisible

The heartbeat

Is always loudest before screaming.

The picture of himself as a child

Skinned knees

After a heavy tackle in the schoolyard

When crying was never an option.

The first time he threw up

After Marmite

The shame when he first became aware

Of his own body odour

Never something to get used to.

How can he still be alive

When the rest of the world

Has passed by, on the other side?

It is what he asked

Before walking through a blizzard

Into a headwind

Trying to feel the pain of breathing

Just to prove that he was not dreaming.

Falling out of a tree

Breaking an arm in the fall

Straight-faced all the way home

When crying was not an option.

A new baby smell

Has been known to bring down walls.

Tears are hot, and the salt taste reminiscent

Of the depth of the ocean

A never-ending sinking plummet

Down into the deep,

When the fear of loss

Trumps all other thoughts

Until the hunch of shoulders

The dip of the head

Brings to mind a book he once read

Uriah was ever so ’umble,

So he was

And there was nothing he couldn’t do

If only he could keep his own counsel.

Not his strongest suit,

His smarmy unctuousness

His nasty superiority complex

Was enough to bring him

Crashing down

Eventually,

Mr Micawber was a family man

With a big heart

Who deserved more.

There is always something

More evil in the corner

Gathering its mustard

Waiting for a moment

To dish it out

And he could never open a jar

Straight from the fridge

Why was that?

He lifted his head,

Crying was never an option

Not with the lights on.

The smell of Chanel had endured

And he saw her

Silhouetted against the light from the doorway

And he knew,

Either she was really there

Or he had finally died

And this smokey, olde worlde place

This Victorian picture postcard

Roadside Tavern

Was not Gormenghast after all,

But a little slice of heaven

That might be hell

And yet

He was almost certainly breathing.