Will you never kiss my face again - A Villanelle

We've been looking at the villanelle in my writing class, so I thought I'd have a bash at one.  There's something very wistful and slightly archaic about the form for me - the repeated rhymes and refrains.  I have been a little free with the form but I think it is still recognisably a villanelle....

Will you never kiss my face again -

your hands reach out no more, your finger's tip

not trace the line of cheek on down to chin?

Will my tongue not taste your breathy stain

and will your lip not press upon my lip?

Will you never kiss my face again?

Remember times when we embraced in rain.

Remember how we gave the sun the slip.

Now there is terror in this parted pain.

You struck me once, I still recall the sting:

your hand against my cheek – my swollen lip.

Will you never strike this face again?

And tears you cried, when stressing under strain

or contemplating yet another trip –  

for there was terror in that parted pain.

But now the parting is complete. Death's train

has swept you from the platform, made no slip.

Now there is terror in this parted pain

For you will never kiss my face again.

shell

I meet you

and my heart bleeds words

and so

upon torn scraps of vellum

I write the words down

in my blood ink

to capture

the beating heart of you

in the beating heart of me

I have chosen my most special epithets

and inscribe them

upon this precious parchment

and with a gum construed

from saliva

and sweat

and blood

and tears

I paste them

upon your soft skin

to cling like lips

to each ululating contour

to follow the curve of your cheek

the sweet overhang of your breast

the challenging valleys

the darker ravines of you

shaped and followed

by my anxious collage

and through such moulding

have I not trapped the beauty

of your spirit

within this papiermâché shell

you dance

and dandle

drift and delight

and I adore you

in this cocooned form

even while I watch

the spirit sift like spun sand

from the pulpit

of your eyes

and listen

to the sea

shudder in your breast

This Is Just To Say

William,

I have drunk

all the Blue Mountain

coffee

if you want any

you will need

to go to the store

I am not sorry

I perceived that

my need

was greater

than yours

prompt - Hollow victory

Latest writing from an Electric Tomatoes meeting - our prompt: Hollow Victory...

She could argue about anything. Made a point of it actually.

'Which do you prefer,' she said, 'the blue satin or the mauve?'

'I dunno.'

'Oh, come on! You're really not helping.'

'Well, they're both nice...'

'Yes, but you've got to have a favourite. Which is your favourite? Come on!'

'Well, the blue's a nice colour.'

'The blue? Really?'

'Yes, I like the blue.'

'You like the blue? Best? Really?'

'Yes. Of the two – the blue.'

'So why don't you like the mauve?'

'I do.'

'You said you like the blue.'

'I do. I like it best.'

'Why? What's wrong with the mauve?'

'Nothing's wrong with it.'

'Well why don't you like it then?'

'I do! I do like it!'

'Well why didn't you say so then.'

'I did! I did say! I said I like them both, but of the two – the blue. The blue's best! Jeez! Which do you like anyway?'

'Me? Oh don't bother about me! It doesn't matter what I like – no, because you can't stand the mauve so... well, there's no choice then is there. If you don't like the mauve, it's got to be the blue then hasn't it. Don't bother about me. Oh no, don't bother about my feelings!'

'They're your frigging shoes, love! You want the mauve, get the mauve. I don't mind.'

'Yes that's it, isn't it! You just don't care. You never listen to me. When I talk you just glaze over – I've seen you.'

'I do not!'

'Yes you do. I've seen you, you just glaze over and whatever I say just goes in one ear and out the other. You just don't care.'

'I DO care. Of course I care, you stupid c.... Of course I frigging care, but I don't mind which frigging shoes you choose. Either'll do. You've just got to choose the ones you'll feel comfortable in.'

'Comfortable? Comfortable – tell me you are NOT serious!'

'Well, you've got to be happy in them. You've got to feel right.'

'How can I feel right in them when I know you hate them?'

'Oh for fuck's sake woman, I do not hate them! Jesus wept, woman. Fuck it, I'm going to make some tea. Do you want some?'

'Of course I want some. Why wouldn't I want some? Of course I want some. Is that too much to ask? Is a cup of tea too much to ask when I can't have the shoes I want?'

So she bought the blue ones but all through the day she was checking them, mumbling about them.

Jeanine looked fabulous of course. Beautiful dress – cream silk with little red roses sewn on. A bit of a train. I could barely control myself as I walked her down the aisle. She always knows how to dress so why Em couldn't ask her advice about frigging shoes I don't know!

'I want them to be a surprise for her,' she says. 'Besides, I can't ask her. She's got too much on'

But all through the reception she'd be checking with people.

Moira, my sister, came over when they'd cleared the tables away and first thing she said was 'Oh Em, them shoes are to die for! Where did you get them?'

'Online,' says Em, ' allaboutheels.com. I'm not sure though. They had some gorgeous mauve ones, but they were threepence more expensive and Lord Snooty said no.  So I feel I've settled a bit. But I'm glad you like them, Moi. I'll probably send them back though after. Can't see me wearing them again.'

'You can't do that!' I said.

'I don't see why not,' says Em. 'People bring stuff back to us all the time and it's quite obviously been out on the town for the night. One woman brought a coat back. All the labels on it and everything – so we took it back, no worries. Then when Glenda was putting it back on the rack she found a half-chewed chicken leg wrapped in a KFC napkin in the pocket! I mean!'

'That's outrageous,' says Moira.

'Oh well then, do what you like, then,' says I. 'On your head though...'

'It'll be on yours as a matter of fact, smartass – it was your credit card details.'

'Oh well thanks very much,' says I. 'Thanks very much indeed!'

So she's off dancing with Moira and I'm stuck at the bar with Brian-in-law, and once we've done West Ham and Stoke and why neither of them are getting beyond the Fourth Round, we just stand there like lemons looking at the girls as they loop under each other's arms.

She's had a lot to drink, Em.

A lot.

To drink.

'Come on, Brian,' shouts Em, 'come and dance with me! He'll never dance with me. Old Lord Snooty. You come. Throw some shades with me, Briannn, come on!'

'Shapes,' I say to Brian, 'she means throw some shapes.'

'Bloody 'ell,' says Brian, 'do I have ter?'

''Sup to you, mate. 'Sup to you.'

So Brian pulls on a smile and bends his knees and shimmies like frigging Baloo over to the dance floor. And Em's there writhing her hips at him like she's seventeen again – well, like she remembers being seventeen anyway. She puts her hand up to his neck as he comes over, plays with the hair at the back of his neck.

I remember that.

So Brian dances with the pair of them for a few minutes till Moira sees her chance and dances her way over to me by the bar.

'Get us a Campari, bro,' she says, 'I'm going out for a ciggy.'

Off she goes and I follow her out with the drinks.

'Why did you make her buy them God awful shoes?' she says outside, 'They're completely the wrong shade.'

'Oh, don't you start! She could have whichever frigging shoes she wanted but no, no. She makes me say which colour I like best – I say blue – and that's it! She goes off on one!

'You're a cruel man, Kevin Bradley!' Moira laughs. 'A cruel man.'

'She just needs someone to blame!'

Then she tells me about Joey. Their eldest.  Twelve.  Leukaemia just diagnosed. God, sad!'

When we go back in it's 10CC - I'm not in love and, fuck me, there's Em with her tongue down Brian's throat. He's participating but it looks more as if he has to rather than that he's enjoying it!

Moira grabs Brian by the elbow and yanks him away.

Em turns to me – fire in her eyes.

'What!? He's more of a man than you'll ever be!'

She's barefoot now and staggers off the dance-floor and grabs her bag.

'I'm going for a piss,' she says. 'And don't fucking follow me!'

As if.

I pick up her shoes and go over to the bar and wait.

So.

That was last Saturday.

Now her mobile goes straight to answerphone and she doesn't return my texts.

So.

Well.

We'll see, won't we.

Just have to wait.

And see.

Out of the Ordinary

'She's an Alaskan Malamute.'

'Say what now?' 

I must admit I didn't really appreciate being woken up this early on a Saturday. I looked at my watch. 10.55. AM. 'You, bastard! Look at the time!'

'Yeah, I know. I'm really sorry, mate.'

Things hadn't been the same between us since Tori died. I don't know if it was just me or whether Gray had been hit bad too. They had dated for a couple of months before Tori and I got together but she'd always said it wasn't serious. To be honest I didn't really care about anyone else.

'It's just for a couple of days. I've got to get home. Ma's poorly and Dad's fallen apart. She's no bother, honestly. Well, y'know, beyond the obvious. Food, walks, shits in the woods... that sort of thing. What I mean is she's really well-behaved, y'know, when you go out, like... And she won't shit in the house.'

'Oh, fuck! All right, you bastard. But you're going to fucking owe me.'

'Yeah, 'course! That goes without... Y'know, like, understood.'

'Owe me big! What did you call it?'

'She's called Yeika.'

'Right. What?'

'Yeika!'

'Yeika? OK.'

'It means strong, graceful.'

'Oh, OK. But what type is it? You said...'

'Malamute. Alaskan Malamute. It's an Inuit sledding dog, y'know, like a huskie only a bit bigger and more out of the ordinary. She's special this dog. Honestly. You won't want to give her back, I promise you. I've only had her two months but already it's really fucking me over having to leave her. You'll love her, I guarantee it.'

'Get the fuck out of here, man, before I change my mind.'

Well, I was up now, with a monster dog in the lounge, so I went through into the kitchen and filled the kettle.

I heard its paws clicking on the vinyl behind me and it just stood and looked at me, its head to one side.

'What?' I said.

Its head changed to the other angle and it stepped forward a little to me. Snout straight into my groin, nudging my dick through my pjs.

'Fuck off, mate!' I said, gently pushing its nose out. But it'd evidently got all the info it needed because it wandered back through to the lounge over to the window. Paws up on the sill looking out through the nets.

'Get down,' I said. 'You're not meant to be here!'

And it did – straight away. Amazing.

The landlord was a bit of an arse and would kick up a stink if he knew there was a dog in the flat. He hadn't liked the iguana, and we never really got on until that snuffed it.

I got my coffee and sat on the couch sipping at it and looking at this fucking mad-looking animal that had just been landed on me. Mind you, it was good looking. For a dog. Thick hair. Well, you know, fur. Mostly thick grey but under its belly was white and black on its head. But like with a white face. Tail curled up across its back.

'What the fuck am I going to do with you?' I said out loud.

It wandered over towards me, stopping half way to stretch and yawn. Biggest fucking teeth I'd ever seen! And a tongue like a side of ham, for fuck's sake. Then it came right on over to where I was sitting, sat down on her haunches and laid her head in my lap. Oh my fucking God! It looked up at me – huge grey eyes – eyebrows kind of pulled up in the middle. Do dogs have fucking eyebrows? Yes of course they do. Well this one did, anyhow.

And she just looked at me. And darts went into my heart.

'Oh, God!' I said. 'Look, I'm not a dog person, right. Let's get that straight right now. I'm just not a dog person. I'm not a cat person either but that's not the poi...' Her eyes. Fuck!

She just sat there, her head on my lap.

I couldn't help myself, I just reached out my hand and rested it on her head. Not stroking mind, I just rested it. She moved her head a little under my hand and I had to readjust its position. And she moved again and so, yes, I moved again and then before you knew it I was stroking the top of her head and watching her eyelids droop down a little, you know, like she really liked it. And her warm fur under my hand was just, well, you know...

So next thing I know we're out in the park and she's walking beside me like she has done all her life. She's not pulling or tugging at the lead or anything. Just calmly walking along beside me like we're out together on a date or something just taking time, you know. Not talking, just walking. That's what you want, isn't it? Someone you can just be with, that you don't have to think of smart things to say all the time. Yeah, like Tori. Fuck. I reckon you find out more about somebody when they're not talking than you do when they are. Tori knew me – and I knew her

And anyway I'm feeling cock o' the north because, well, for fuck's sake, she's a fucking handsome dog. Fuck that, she's beautiful. She's fucking beautiful. And all these other dog-walkers are out there with their mutts and they're all looking at me as if to say. 'Fuck! You beauty!' And all their little pooches are straining at their leads to come over and have a sniff at her. And some that are off the lead do come over and are sniffing round her arse and she doesn't give them any attention. She just keeps on walking. And I'm trying to get them to keep off her but she's not bothered at all. Even when one or two start barking at her as if to say 'Come on, you stuck up bitch.'

And to be honest, she is a bit of a stuck up bitch! But I reckon that's a good thing.

And one thing's for certain. Gray's not getting her back.

Black Bin Bag

'I'll take them on Thursday,' I said, 'if that's ok.'

'Yes, whatever. Thursday's fine.'

'Or do you need me to take them today? I can take them today if you need me to. But they'll have to sit in the boot for a couple of days.'

'No, no, come and get them on Thursday. They're not going anywhere. I'm not going anywhere.'

'I could try and get back tomorrow but I can't promise. I'll try. But I can't promise.'

'Thursday's fine.'

He sniffed and started to tie the top of the bin bag closed. Then he opened it again and smoothed the top of the pile flat.

'They're all clean,' he said. 'All clean and ironed.'

'Of course. I know.'

He turned and closed the wardrobe. As usual the door swung open again. He pushed it shut and turned the key in the lock.

'Will you try and get out a little, Dad? You need to get out in the fresh air.'

'I went out yesterday.'

'Did you?'

'Yes, took a turn in the garden. I'm all right. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Well, I do, Dad. Of course I'm concerned. You've lost a bit of weight the last couple of weeks. You look pale. I don't like to see you looking so pale.'

'Yes... well.... Thanks for that.'

'So, of course I'm concerned.'

He turned and went back downstairs. So I followed him down and into the kitchen. He took the kettle from the side and dipped it under the tap. I saw him glance up the garden as he stood waiting for the water to run faster.

'Grass needs a cut.'

'Yes... Well I can do that for you on Thursday, too. If you like.'

'I'll do it.'

'It'd only take a minute.'

'I'll do it.... Must fix this tap washer,' he said. 'Your mother keeps on at...' He realised what he was saying. I saw his jaw set and a look of irritation come over his face.

'Bloody leylandii!' he said. 'They should bloody get that thing chopped down. Look at it. Blocks all the sun out this time of day. Look at that bloody shadow. I'm going to have to tell 'em again. Bloody antisocial. Should be a ban on the bastard things.'

He placed the kettle on its stand and flipped the switch. But the red light didn't come on.

'Oh bloody hell, what's the bloody problem now?'

He picked up the kettle and put it back down.

'Bloody cheap kettle. I said we should get the Russell Hobbs.'

At last the light came on and the growl of the water heating steadily grew.

'What'll you eat tonight, Dad?'

'Oh, I'll be all right. You don't need to concern yourself. I'll find something in the cupboard. You don't need to worry.'

'I can cook you something if you like.'

'No, no, no – I've got something in the cupboard. You get off. You need to get off home. Sylvia will be wondering where you've got to, won't she. You get yourself off home.'

'She knows where I am. I said I was coming round.'

'Well... you get off home. I'll be fine. You don't need to concern yourself.'

'Ok. Well, I'll be back on Thursday, then. Ok?'

'Ok. I'll see you Thursday. I'll probably have sorted a little more out by then. You come on Thursday. It'll all be ready for you on Thursday.'

'Have you got enough bin bags, Dad?'

'Oh, yes. I've got plenty. Plenty. I'm going to put some stuff in the big suitcase anyway. They can have that an' all.  I'll not need it anymore.  I'll put the dresses and things in there and her unde...'

He bit the words back. I could see them ricochet around his mind. His hand went to his face as if he could pull the veil of sadness from his nose and mouth. His palm rasped on his unshaven chin. I put my hand on his arm. I couldn't find a word. My own throat was clammed tight.

'Yes, the other stuff... I'll put the other stuff in the bin bags. If they don't want them they can recycle or just chuck 'em. They're no use to me. And her shoes.'

He opened the cup cupboard and took out two mugs. He poured boiling water into them and dropped a tea bag in each. Went to the cutlery drawer and found a teaspoon and dabbed at the teabags in turn, forcing the brown liquid out of them.

'Fifteen pairs of shoes, she's got. Fifteen. I haven't had fifteen pairs in my whole life, but she's got fifteen sat there in the wardrobe. Who needs fifteen pairs of shoes?'

'Imelda Marcos.'

'Eh?'

'Imelda Marcos. In the Philippines. She had thousands of pairs.'

'Did she indeed?'

The tea was thick and brown. He hooked each bag in turn with the teaspoon, squeezing it against the side of its mug before pulling it out and dropping it into the pedal bin. ' Well, I think it's daft.'

'Yes. But Mum liked shoes.'

'She did... she did.' He slowly stirred milk into the tea.

'Not too much for me, Dad.'

'Hm?'

'Milk – not too much milk. I'm intolerant. Lactose.'

'Oh. Right.'

Ice cold

these legs are stiff

these claws that used to tick upon the floor

and scruff this ear

are deadly still

this tail that used to brush my foot

or beat the table leg

is fixed in place

they said

that if this nose was cool and wet

then he was fit

but

touch it now

Ice cold