Posted by Rob in Poetry.
Sep
17
It’s the little things that matter
Calling just to hear your voice
You speak about yourself a while
and I talk about you for a bit
I say something about me
You have to go.
It’s the little things that matter
You call as you’re waiting for a train
I ask how your day’s been
You tell me
I say mine’s has been fine as the train arrives.
It’s the little things that matter
I call to make sure you’re ok
Through teary breaths you say little for once
about you.
I say I’m here for you
any-time
always.
You say something that really hurts
without realising, as you do.
It’s the little things that matter
We lie in each others arms
as you rub a spot on my right arm
as if you’re memorising it.
I think I want to know every inch of you
And then that I already know too much.
Just then you pull me close and say something
that makes me feel really loved.
As you do
occasionally..
It’s the little things that matter?
May
13
I know your face
Your smile
Your lips.
I know your tongue, and the inside surface of your cheeks.
I know your eyes – that thoughtless, perfect gaze..
In every detail.
I know your body -
From your neck, through your chest hair
Below.
I know your nipples,
And your perfect mole.
I know your smell.
And sometimes I can close my eyes and
feel my hands run through your hair
As if you’re there
In front of me
I look into your perfect eyes
I think
Who the fuck are you?
Nov
28
Riding on a train and
It’s tearing through the morning air and
I’m looking out at the sea
As we roll along the coast
It feels like we’re riding through
the water
And it’s white with light
Shining into my eyes
Half-open
I’m smiling as some folk-music plays
right in my ears.
This girl sings of clouds and love and life
Of which I’d only claim to know the one
And then I’m in the city again.
Occasionally eyes meet
Then divert
And I walk on.
Clouds? I know
I know nothing at all.
Sep
10
Jul
10
Didn’t write, just liked.
We convince ourselves that life will be better after we get married, have a baby, then another. Then we’re frustrated that the kids aren’t old enough and we’ll be more content when they are. After that, we’re frustrated that we have teenagers to deal with. We’ll certainly be happy when they’re out of that stage.
We tell ourselves that our life will be complete when our spouse gets his or her act together, when we get a nicer car, are able to go on a nice vacation, when we retire..
Jul
6
Jul
6
The clinical sense of despair.
That look – the silent, reserved pity.
Nurses smiling -
Why?
Feeling guilty just for being OK
When he’s there, in that bed. Dead.
Except his chest still moves up and down
If you’d notice that.
Cause he’s jerking and he’s
fighting to get back on his feet.
And his eyes are opening and
shutting as he’s trying to see
the light.
May
14
The following is my Advanced Higher English dissertation. For anyone who is interested it is 4,499 words in length. The maximum limit being 4,500 
In the books Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell and Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury, how effectively do the writers present convincing dystopias, extrapolating our current behaviour in order to warn of how this behaviour could lead to an inauspicious future?
These novels are two of the most famous examples of literary dystopias, each providing their own varying, yet equally undesirable predictions of the future. Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell, published in 1949 in the aftermath of the Second World War, looks to the then future 1984, and predicts a society of complete government control in the absence of any personal liberty – a society where everyone is under constant surveillance and scrutiny, not just of their actions but crucially also of their thoughts. The world he presents, though extreme for having predicted it in such a relatively close future, is realistically terrifying and warns more vividly than perhaps any other book: change, or else this is how the world may end up.
May
12
3.
Bryan lay peacefully amongst his own thoughts as he looked at that same water, from the same bench he had once sat every day at this same time: every day at this very same minute. He recalled it first occurring to him as odd that for the past two days, having arrived at his bench from work, his watch had read the same thing. Had it been any other time he would probably never have noticed – arriving at 11:10 three days running would be completely uninteresting and ordinary, and 11:12 equally insignificant – but, there was something different about 11:11. And, when on the fourth day a quick glance revealed that same number repeated three times over, he had – not entirely subconsciously – made it his effort to arrive here at that minute of that hour.
He occasionally missed his target and those days, perhaps only by his imagination, tended to be “bad days”. That time had become a lucky charm to him – though perhaps one he wasn’t sure could be trusted. He welcomed it cautiously, not knowing whether it was truly a friend or an enemy. And he equally laughed at it and himself for following it as he, a logical person, did not believe in superstition (this ignoring the dedication with which he followed it).
And so on this day, on his return to the bench since that day last week – when he had met her, he had taken extra special care to arrive here at that time, whilst also pretending to himself he was doing no such thing. The truth was he knew that if he was to meet her again this would be the time.
And he had to meet her. He had to. Ever since that day in the park, when their eyes met for that briefest moment, she had been the only thing on his mind. On arriving home he instantly regretted not having spoken to her, just to have said.. anything. He understood now that for those two to three seconds or so he had felt alive again for the first time in many years. Had she felt the same? YES. Of course she had. She had to have.
Then where was she?! Surely she should have been here by now; it was almost 11:15. He shouldn’t worry, she would be here he reassured himself.
He wondered what her name was. For the past few days since he decided he was going to come and meet her he had been trying to guess what it might be. Perhaps Claire, he suggested. She had that look. He imagined her being gentle, almost shy at first, and incredibly caring.
She had lost something like he had, and she felt that same emptiness.
He was here to fix her.
But that was a ridiculous thought: the idea that he could assume all that simply from a glance. One glance. To her it had probably meant nothing. She had walked away and continued with her life and shared other glances with other people and they had meant equally as little.
No. It had been more than that. For that briefest moment he was sure he could remember the hint of a smile: but that was all it had been – a smile. A brief union of their eyes. A shared moment between two people. That happened all the time for most.
He looked up from the water, which he now realised was far dirtier than it had been the week previous, and laughed at what he had become. A few days and he had already become so utterly obsessed with this fantasy, it was almost pathetic. And yet it was normal. He remembered fantasising in such a way long before he’d lost his first love; even occasionally whilst he was with her, though he would never have acted upon it. But that was all it had been – a fantasy, and that was all it had ever stayed.
His thoughts now seemed clear and determined in a way which reminded him of his old self. The person he was here to meet did not exist. She existed only in his imagination, and there was nothing wrong with that, but he should not be trying to meet her. That would only lead to disappointment.
Bryan stood and walked away, life continuing. The moment he had shared remembered fondly as one perfect moment in time. Never to be acknowledged for all of its true significance.
May
12
2.
The disabling whiteness faded away and slowly colour and shape and form returned. Control. Sanity? In the small cubicle one colour ruled. Not as it was the majority, though it held its share, but there is just something about red which draws the attention. Thick blood ran down the walls, covered the floor, even occasionally dripped from the low ceiling. This was the part she did not enjoy – the aftermath. There was a quote she half remembered which rang to her as rather true, “even after the end, we’ll still have to tidy up”. Or it was something along those lines. It was unfortunate, but just the way it is, so she had to get on with it.
It made her feel almost dirty as she stood in this mess, once the intensity of the moment subsided and she was left there – alone. She closed her eyes for a moment and replayed the event in her mind: as her knife had first pierced his shoulder as he sat there; the look on his face. The look on his face: she remembered it clearly. How pathetic it was. She breathed a sigh of relief, and smiled madly. Then she opened her eyes once more and began to analyse the scene.
It would be impossible to clean this in any reasonable time she deduced. An attempt to do so might in fact put herself at more risk. She looked round for anything that might be discriminating . The body seemed to be free of hairs, and she hoped the hairnet and gloves might have done the job.
This time she understood she had gotten sloppy – she must be more careful. It was foolish doing this here, in such a public place. As she reminded herself to burn everything she was wearing immediately upon returning home it occurred to her fire may also offer a solution here. The toilets were sufficiently hidden at the back of the park that they should burn long enough before someone noticed.
But already she found herself lusting for the next night. For that moment of extreme pleasure again, when everything melted around her. When everything was right. She needed that. Now.
Her lust overpowering her logic, she moved out into the park again. She might return later to fix this. NO – that would be foolish, and she couldn’t stand returning to see him like that.
Anyway, maybe now she’d get some fucking notice.
She was now on borrowed time, and it was inevitable she would soon be caught. She needed to make the most of things while she could. She might try and find the man who sat next to her the other day. She had thought of him much since. Yes – she would have him next.
And she didn’t mind the inevitability of her own fate – things had just started to get a little boring.