Rebecca Gimblett



The glass is stuck to the bath
and the glass is coming loose,
water coming through,
we need to fix it.

The glass is stuck to the bath
and the glass is coming loose.
Water coming through.
We need to fix it.

I hope my cancer turns me
into something beautiful
Bones smoking hot
Under all that new baby skin
Carrying everything important
in one loose pocket
Empowered by a world
predicted by film
Where quitting isn’t possible,
delayed hair growth means nothing
Time measured
in dusky porches
crabs in my stomach
the only dinner bell
v [meanwhile]

the grid came down, the power went out. we entered the new terrorist society. Now became even more normal to fear death. Kids looked at phones as dead pets, buried them in the ground or carried them around, moulding, where their parents couldn’t see The rest of us back in the past tried to forget thousands dead and deaf to sensibility we fed on them. Food was everywhere, then nothing, then everywhere again we relearned what we forgot, why had we stopped eating some things. Women lost everything earned, the strong ones died first The weak died or became stiff then died. Clothes to rags then rags were clothes, or towels wrapping ragged bodies left out in the rain. The youth peppered. Prospered. Adapted. Old soldiers died fast, tired of the big nothing of everything changing, or didn’t die, became something else they had never imagined, something not so real. The only emails left we had opened the useless ones, bills and deals.
Things always seem important until

It’s late
I want to taste 6.30am
from the dangerous side
so much putrid nutrients
I stay up all night
it exists perilously sharp.
I pinch my four corners and stretch,
pinning butterfly-like to
The Universe, it’s out there
in leaves, growing grass
it’s making eggs and bacon
for the war effort, is mending scraps.
Quit now before
you know better
what comes later
Why nothing worth quitting can be done
Not the hook nor the rod nor the bait or
nothing makes a fisherman from a sailor

you leave here with bad habits
or not at all
vi [meanwhile]

I have lined the pockets of my green trench coat with two-bit coins to buy small things with
when the time comes, I have three cameras to take it all in, a cigarette freckle near the orion belt
on my wrist, I am pulled before television screens to watch things and feel unreal and closer
closer we come
to true evil. Around me dance mad butterflies sent from the bush of The Universe. to be dealt with
madly because storms rage, later in time than where they really are, towards me. I have given it
the good college try
Lately I have been wondering about the origin of sayings. I spare my neologies. I choose harder partners

The glass is stuck to the bath
and the glass is coming loose,
water coming through,
we need to fix it.
Girls who
opened up for love
don’t let their muscles cool too long
they have very little choice but to become
scouts, reconnaissance, pioneers, trough feeders.
Sex. All we can do is teach lessons
with weapons they call weaknesses.
where I suck the peach bone clean
til the poison sinks into me, anaesthetizing
evolving These women breed new seeds,
spartanned at birth Hardened
by fuckwind, mountain crush, rainspit
solid fruit removed of juice,
salted being worthy warriors. They’ll do.

The glass will break and block
the hole eventually, water seeps and slops,
seconds on a clock, down down
the abandoned home not abandoned, paid for.

It’s late. for i
Picked a mad woman’s brains.
I hope her answers turn me
into something beautiful
a lieutenant
tones smoking hot
flirting from my tongue
freak and free
with strips of fluid
cooling me masculine and woman
making me ok
When she was young
her mother said her mother said
The wage of love is dying
The wage of dying is love

Rebecca Gimblett is a writer-poet. She is working on her first book which gets more complicated the more she writes it and thus she falls more in love everyday. She doesn’t expect to ever really finish it. But poems keep sneaking out. Poems are funny like that.