"spare.", "I like the way the cat feels on my back", "on that."...by Georgie Bailey

spare.

We paint her old house

creating constellations of black holes

in dormant spaces where things collected dust once

A shade of lilac akin to that skin we wear

masking walls layered with seventy years of history

I’m assigned the little bedroom

barely used bar dirty washing

a dampened box lies like a dead fly

still half twitching with life

I hold a Geisha statue awhile

freshly plucked from the treasure trove

thinking of the places she’d never been

but pretended to go all the same

i like the way the cat feels on my back,

paws dipping away deep into spine,

claws sometimes nipping, catching skin.

I’ve laid here six hours.

The light outside has crept away from the window,

burrowed itself in the moonlight’s hammock.

The pigeons have risen and gone to bed again

as I’ve stared at the ceiling’s crevices,

rolling over from one end to another.

Not hearing my voice all day for any moment,

only speaking to thoughts that cloud the head.

I think she wants to be fed.

on that.

Everywhere I look it’s there.

Through sleepy eyed streets

Midnight doorways caked in whispers

In frosted over windows

In darkened dead fingers

Hanging from dying trunks

In mirrors cracked with awful luck

Down sinks sunk with daydreams

and it laughs // howls // sniggers

deep from a belly big

with orange and purple air

it sucked away from the horizon,

snatched from our closing hours

the walks home, the stroked head,

the hands held, the word never said

Cus we’ll never even get close

To what it means

What it is

Why we crave it

Or what it could be

And maybe that’s enough

Maybe that’s all it has to be

Don’t go easy on me

this poem won’t end with a rhyme

But it’ll talk about how you might

Sell my pieces in a market of mirrors

Brand my ankles with dark prices

Bid on these bones

In dingy internet corners

Rock me out to sea

Clobber my brain with a settee

Mush, London’s comfiest smoothie

Don’t let me rest

I’ll never sit down

And this poem won’t end with a rhyme.

Each day I’ll pick out a smile to

wear Saturate my cheeks in it,

Apple bob every muscle, joint, fibre in it

Rub it round

Moisturise

Drown

In and amongst the saddest glee

You or I ever did see

Just don’t let this poem end with a rhyme.

Georgie Bailey is a multi-award-winning Playwright and Poet, originally from Bordon, Hampshire. He recently completed an attachment to the Oxford Playhouse and studied at Bristol Old Vic Theatre School’s MA Dramatic Writing. His works have been published in a various collections such as Ropes Literary Journal, The Lake, Horizon Magazine and Trouvaille Review.