Sunday, 24 January 2010

Palpitations/ Peaks and Troughs

Kristian writing (up). Amelia writing (down).

‘Love Poem to Palpitations’ By Kristian Wightwick

We, us locals, sit
On individual stools, one apart.
Each time the door opens, we turn
Our heads.
Resigned, we retreat—just another local.

I shuffle on the cushion and lock my legs.
I cup my pint and unstuck my elbows from the bar top.
I let the condensation from the glass
Mask my sweaty palms.

The stale air heavies my nose
And muffles the synth and drum of
Amateur post-punk; the sound track of
Casiotone for the helplessly alone.
Beat, off sync with my rhythm:
An increasing thudding
Of palpable fluttering –
The churning of concrete,
Prisoner to my naval. Perhaps the drink?
The door—I snap to face it. Expectant.
Just another local and back to the
Barman, “same again, please”.

Stranded on my stool, surrounded
By the fresh smell of stale ale,
The drone of casiotone, clashing with
My pulse.
I could make for the door, end it all.
Forget this place and take control.
I could text you and say, “another night?”
Let you down and cut the palpitations.
But I’d lose that drive,

That off-beat pulse,
Organic to its very nervous cell, its control.
I’d lose the part of me that waits for you.

On this solitary stool, I endure the surrounding decay,
The sticky side and dodgy drink
Because, right now, I live and feel
The blood that churns in me.

So, it’s worth the sinking feeling
Each time I hear the door and return to the
Barman, “same again, please”.

Across it are peaks and troughs
Of illuminated pink sheets, beckoning me beneath them
And amidst the swirling mass, is you

Underneath, hazy darkness.
Hot breath against my face.
Your fingertips pressing the fibres of my clothes
Against my skin.

We transform into a world were flight
Is possible –
I soar effortlessly against gold and blue
Freedom caressing my face. And you.
Caressing my face.
I crash back. Come up for some air.
And there’s a you shaped space
Beside me.
The only word to describe it is


Even two gentle hums from each far corner,
Those furry contented breaths
Replacing your delicate presence cannot console me.

No longer freedom tenderly lingering about my face
But cold air crashing around my ears
Icy exhalation replacing yours.

I stuff a pillow into my aching arms
Glacial against my skin
I dream of you, of heat,

Your metallic scent lingers
Where your lips met my neck
Your shirt brushed my hand
Your eyes burnt into mine
And stretching out empty fingers
I trace the outline of your face
On my pillow.

Across it are peaks and troughs
Of lacklustre pink sheets
Stretching for miles before me
And within the eternity
You’re missing.

Amelia Gibson

1 comment:

  1. We transform into a world were flight is possible

    ^ typing error? WHERE flight is possible?

    Very very very good Kris and Amelia.
    - Imogen :) x