“Siobhan Knox is a ridiculous human being – in that it’s hard to believe such a connective being exists on this mortal plane. You will be entranced by her body and verbal motion, possibly even explode because she’s too real for you to handle” – Alex Etchart, Community Musician
This is a poem about anger
This is a poem about my anger ….mine
The anger that I have never truly been able to find, realise admit
Well thats exactly it.
Because this is a poem about anger gone inwards
Anger swallowed down in burning acidic gulps
like golf balls in my throat and sinking
tying in tangles of impenetrable knots
far too twisted to find the end of the entrail
landfill building brick fortress walls from my organs
…my mouth is a moat, that tells happy lies to keep you at bay.
This is a poem about the anger I feel for YOU.
THIS is a poem about how angry I am that you never let me.
This is a poem about how angry I am that he manifested dishonest painworlds around us for years
Sending faith and love account plummeting, and blood pressures tsunami tear waves rocketing sky high.
This is a poem about my anger that he gets to move on while it seems that somehow I am ending.
Life is a delicate balance between action and passivity, giving and taking constantly in flux….
But sometimes an action so violent can seem to render a person permanently passive.
This is a poem about how fucking angry I am that every line I start to write begins with an apology
This is a poem where I actively denounce every apology I have ever made.
Every heartfelt sorry
Every meaningful sorry,
Every sorry made in haste
Every sorry that I WASTE
flung around meaningless sorries
cushioning the blow to your ego
that I might sometimes, tentatively,
offer up opinions that differ from yours.
Every sorry I have made for my sex.
Every sorry I made for being born woman
Being born body female bodied expanding into these shapes that do not fit what the cultural jelly mould dictates I should be growing into
Starve myself back into a sonogram,
Sorrycut round the edges that don’t fit in
with razors,burns and beatings.
Every sorry I make
to take a step into your world to sit there in this space
embrace TOO MUCH
You can’t do that HERE, too much,
too much room I took up too much room
This is Private Property and it’s just too soon,
Don’t sit there don’t SAY THAT SO LOUDLY,
Legs shut, mouth shut, eyes shut, mind shut
and don’t make a fuss.
Every sorry shiftily stuttered as we walk in on each others fantasies by accident, genitals in hands, acutely aware of all of the everything but choosing to sorrowfully sorryfall back into darkened rooms of embarrassment locked doors swallowed pride instead of just laughing at each other with a ‘Yeah…me too!!’
I’m just not fucking sorry anymore.
And this is a poem about anger.
This is a poem about understanding that I will always see the wetness in your eyes and ultimately want to just hold you. BE you. Be in you. Love you.
But I need to be this anger for now.
I need to tell this story journey with my pain
that blazes for centuries,
fire from fingertips, ash from eyelids,
the honesty of anger permeates through me like lightning bolt white light fervour.
And when I do
I will be me.
Empty. This is empty. It stares back at you and it breathes the word ‘over’ over and over again until you can’t really think straight. Think straight think straight…is there even such a thing as thinking straight? Surely every thought
We opened up our relationship to the world we put it to the floor and on the floor was where we lay holding eachother close hair entangled bodies as one we nurtured our love and opened it up like a
Every year Christmas seems to grow bigger And I thought it was meant to be the other way round? As I grow taller and carefully mould my personality into it’s allotted human space Surely the Christmas trees should grow smaller
A heartbeat. One heartbeat. Two heartbeats. Two beats of hearts, ragged sobbing breathing and the weight of her, falling onto me, but not crushing me, because I can hold her strong this time like some kind of pillar, this time