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transnerd

trans, nerd.

Month

January 2017

Day By Day By Day

Some days

I wish

I could alter the weather,

Most days

I wake

And weather the storm.

Some days

I’m stone

And others I’m feather,

All days

Are odd,

And evenly worn.

Psalmphletting 

​The mist fell, glitter under streetlights. I walked into to frozen morning with Pantera cranked to drown out the locals. Fully wrapped, still the chill broke through. I quickened my pace to get some heat going. 

I get stopped at every crossing by red man lights and white rabbit drivers.
The walk takes me through the outskirts of the city, past repurposed wasteland car parks, new build tenements, jarring modernity, new roads built over old houses. I walk past the old church where my faith faded and think nothing of it. A quarter of a century is a good length of time for wounds to heal.
The wind picks up and I force my face further into the tall collar of my waterproof. The roads around here are treacherous, the drivers offer no indication before pulling across so extra care is necessary. I look around and over my shoulder before jogging to the other side.
As my foot hit the kerb, I looked up and my eyes locked contact with an old man. His eyes lit up and his smile was pleasant, unthreatening. He raised some paper into my eyeline.
The soft focus sky-gazing long-haired white man on the cover was enough to know.
I was almost impressed that he’d be out before 8am, leafleting for Jesus, but I offered the man a condescending smile, shook my head lightly and carried on walking. 

Gauz. 

Cold as 

A snowman’s midnight nipple.

The stairway shivers,

We wait.

The bright threatens the gauze

But never breaks it

Enough.

The Chair

This chair

Is bucking me.

There is no comfortable position,

No matter how one twists or twitches.

Despair,

It’s fucking me.

This is someone else’s seat.

It will never shape itself to me.

Make It Again

Limping;

A mockery,

A three-legged race in half-time,

Through swirled fogs

And unforgiving woodland.

Scraping birches,

Near-frozen drips drop down.
A bright patch in the 

Sullen winter sky.

The First Date

A year

Since Blackfriars.

A station,

A kiss,

A start.

The tunnel’s light

Was her

That night.

7:30 am Local Time

Standing around the radio,

Tuned to local,

Listening for word on snow;

Are they closed?

We hope.

Two teachers and their children

Huddled, eating toast

And waiting for the word

On three schools’ statuses

And whether they

Get to behave like children

For a whole snow day.

Midnight Rerun 

That scene again,

The one where the tape

Should have worn thin

But mouths still gape.

The audience of one 

Stares on,

Strapped to the chair

And wishing for a release,

A remote,

A chance to skip before the scene

Replays

Again.

Ghuests 

Bags of ghosts

From varied hosts

Quietly await their fate. 

Such parting sorrow

As we’ve borrowed

And will soon return to state.

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