Author: Izzy Hodgson

Beige

She operated in shades of beige.
Emaciated or emancipated?
Tell her.
Too nothing to eat, sleep or read.
But there is always time for tea –
Even the nothingness of phones, telly, apps and instance is not quite nothing enough.

Downstairs? Wash face? Clean? Choose?
No thank you, too much.
Tell her.

Please.

I know she wants you to.
Give her no choice and an easy one.
Fear or hedonism?
Tell her.
She craves control but no choice please.
Sick of competition, ambition and colour.
Sick.

How can you think under the fluorescence?
Violent, aggressive and invasive fluorescence.
Privacy is a remnant of the past,
To be observed and pondered in the
– great  –   British museum.
Or maybe in bed when
The deepest desire is to be alone to cast
Off responsibility and just exist without
Consequence only for a moment
Overstimulated and in danger
6:35 beeps and chirps the morning into
Existence

Maybe another list?

Isabelle Hodgson

Cans

Cans can hold all kind of things
Peaches, aubergines, peas and pearls
They are simply
Dissected, pickled, packed
Ready for consumption
In stackable, conveniently trackable
Cans.
That sit in shelves of shops
In shelve-like streets
On shelves of land.

When the event rolls around, across a
Kitchen counter
And reveals itself
In a crackling ripple of aluminium
It exposes a cavernous body of peach-
shaped organs
Lathered in sugary syrup
Like the limbs of glamorous women
On influential beaches

Cans can even can feelings
And I was surprised how easily they went.
One ‘don’t’ from a trusted friend and I
conceded
My feelings for you must be canned.
I’ll admit they went like treacle
Thick, sticky, icky, a little unhealthy
But no matter how viscous
They went –
Until they were neatly contained
And stored in a cool dry cupboard

I packed up my cupboard with aubergines, peaches, peas and pearls
Until I could not see or think
Of treacle. I hadn’t realised it was sitting
Dormant

Until you went looking for sweetness or
Mischief
And with a gap-toothed smile
You opened the can –
It overturned and all too suddenly they
came rushing out you see years had
turned treacle to milk a more
Volatile liquid.
And when I looked up again we were not
children
Your gap-toothed smile meant something
More sinister
Something I wasn’t prepared for,
You still wanted mischief and I didn’t
Know what I wanted.

Before my cupboard was packed
With other things to eat.
But now I was left wanting
The cans are empty,
The milk is spilled,
And still I am left wanting
So you see,
I must consume you.

Isabelle Hodgson