my heart is untidy Damn winter. Snow: curds of my dysphoria. Always home, despair, alighting from a poultice sky like a migrating bird with its entourage of woe. You say I do not love you; that my heart is too untidy; that the life in my kiss is like inhaling a knife; that I am cold as vanity. You say I have fear: my touch a thud of enemy. Yes, I have fear like a colossus, yet my world is too small like a drawstring bag, its neck strangle-tight that it cannot breathe. I have sadness for all this. Sadness such that even the trees look away and the cats scatter opening up to the flume of spring while I remain hunched in the resolve of an interminable winter. DISCONNECTED #28 Tearing at the mirror, my hands unrequited raw as a dismal death jutted into an empty room. Heart, a violent strawberry light always present in the background of history's lamentable photographs like a bloody sunburst, like a recurring autopsy. In the foreground father declines the offer of a supporting role. Mother smiles above the bank-bound fish of her heart. They are now a fascinating silence - the way a corpse pulls the eyes even in the horror of its deliquescence. DISCONNECTED #31 The daylight is unspeakable, asphyxiated by the low cloud. Gulls hang like white flags wooing the blue armistice of sky. Down below we are managing our suicides, holding our dead like small warm stones. The living love as if promise were a ligature, a patch of loud unable to grieve. Old photographs lie face to face in the thin dust; their fucking less than poetic. Spring verges: a hollow optimism of furled petals. DISCONNECTED #33 Despair, my tattered dogma. What prescription elected you? as the rooting of tortuous decibels in the grotesque opera of my belly; its aria the ghost of a stillborn. It is a slum in there anyway: a dry room of pitted walls that collect the noise and blood that refuses to behave. It all has a passion for collapse. No wonder I have affection for the bone. DISCONNECTED #34 I have spent sunrises like gold coins, yet pushed dreams like pennies in an arcade machine on afternoons all ghosts and foolish poetry. I have lain on the dreadful bed of yesterday, my eyes soggy with wakefulness wishing memory all warm and lullaby-stuffed. I trace the lament of the neglected womb; an insect crawling free from fluid amber into the terrible headlines of living. The world all wars and mistakes and fine art; all greed and sunshine; all painted wings and twisted men with blood on their lips. DISCONNECTED #35 I like my skin - its mild caramel in winter; a summer tint that resists a cold mistake. It speaks with the tongue of the wilderness and does not hide from the ruins. The alarm is that there will be too much to hate: a time when my eyes might collapse like new mourners at the first realisation of the graveside.
Currently living in Argyll, Scotland with her partner, two children and a cat, Gillian Prew ditched philosophy in favour of poetry even though the former still haunts her. She has three collections of poems and has been published at Full of Crow, Carcinogenic Poetry, Gutter Eloquence, Gloom Cupboard, Fragile Arts Quarterly, 'ditch', and The Glasgow Review among others. She has also been a 'Featured Artist' at Counterexample Poetics. Her blog, proud spots and solitudes, can be found at http://gillianprew.wordpress.com/