Poetry by HLR

                  Richard P J Lambert CC




(Ador)/(Deplor)able


Once upon a time
my odd behaviour / strange way of thinking / outrageous antics
were endearing:
everyone loved me and my wild ways
(perhaps even because of my wild ways)

Once upon a time
in a busy supermarket
on a Tuesday afternoon
I climbed into a chest freezer
with the chicken nuggets and pies
and closed the door tightly behind me
because I was so tired and needed to lie down
and the shop was too noisy and scary and I needed to be cold
because I thought my blood was on fire and I just wanted to be dead

Omg you’re sooo mental hahaha / What a nutter, you’re so funny! / Lmfao I fucking love you, you crazy bitch! / You are SUCH a legend / Girl, you psycho! / Wowww batshit cray
 
You’d call 999 if I did that today.
You’d scuttle away from ~the scene~
shaking your head, failing to hide the embarrassment on your face
but not before telling the crowd of dismayed onlookers she’s been that way for years
 
Because now that people have a “greater awareness” and “understanding” of mental illness, my behaviours are appalling / tragic / sad / dangerous / pitiful / distressing / such a shame

The idiosyncrasies of mine
that were once adorable
are now utterly deplorable

and I’m still just as sick as before
but at least you “get it” now, right?
At least that’s something:
at least some good came out of all of this bad.





(This) Isn’t It

I don’t know what I want in life
But I know this isn’t it.

The more perfect you become
The less you seem to fit.
And surely something must be wrong
If life attached feels just as shit
As it would do if we were to split.

I don’t know what I want in life
But I know this isn’t it.

I’m waiting for a stranger to admit
That he still loves me more than a little bit,
Chasing that glorious high I know exists
But knowing that, whatever I find,
It’ll never, ever be as good as that first hit.

I don’t know what I want in life
But I know this isn’t it.





To Love X Y and Z

Most of her sentences begin with, “I used to.”
She used to be / to go / to enjoy / to do / to love x y and z.
Now she dwells, angry and bitter, writing furious lists
of all of the things that The Thief has stolen from her.
She used to enjoy painting. She used to dance
in crowds. She used to wear dresses. She used to be
smart. She used to do sports. She used to enjoy
the sunshine. She used to have
real friends. She used to be pretty. She used to travel
abroad. She used to enjoy sex. She used to speak
several languages. She used to throw parties. She used to make
people laugh. She used to be skinny. She used to be
popular. She used to be able to do
anything. She used to be a daughter,
a sister, a niece, a granddaughter.
She used to be brilliant.
She used to trust people.
She cannot get over Her [old] [true] [real] Self;
she misses Her and grieves for Her.
The person she is now is not a person,
rather a half-human living a half-life.
But The Thief cannot be caught nor punished.
Already locked up in the prison of her mind,
The Thief paces day and night, making her brain ache
while waiting for an opportunity to strike,
destroying her dreams before they can be realised,
converting her hopes into fears, stealing her life
one memory, one chance, one possibility at a time.
The punisher cannot be punished.
You can’t hang the hangman.
The Thief will only leave when there’s nothing left to steal.
The Thief will leave soon.





Things You’ll Find When I Die

Is this what’s left,
                                what is left of a life?
                                A human being
                                boiled down
                                reduced
                                to a handful of possessions.
                                I think about how
                                and when and why,
                                and the pieces of me
                                 that you will find
                                 when I die…


Rusty hoop earrings. Melted daffodils in a Kronenbourg pint glass. Note that reveals the secret ingredient of my guacamole. Two winning scratch-cards. Hunting knife wrapped in a bloody tea towel. One million kirby grips. Punnet of overripe nectarines. 3 x deer skulls. Pile of cigarette ash. Several hundred books. Diet pills. 5 x rabbit skulls. Flutter of coke on a copy of Vogue (Paris, December 2015). Rosary blessed by Pope John Paul II. My Hit-List. Fancy dresses that I’ll never get to wear. Emergency £50 note. 1 x Black Ibex horn. Tangle of leggings. Custard-cream crumbs in the bed. Array of plastic carrier bags—various sizes (under the sink). Bowl of ‘easy peelers’ that are not easy to peel in the slightest. Shoebox of acrylics, watercolours, inks. Academic records, including my prize-winning essay on poetic energy in William Carlos Williams’ Spring and All. Shrine to my father. Broken Rimmel lipstick (colour #30). Two vintage Arsenal scarves. Box file filled with cards and letters from family, friends and exes. Empty notebooks. Enough filled journals to (hopefully) explain me away. And finally, a locked wooden box containing The Truth—my truth, and yours, too. The keys are inside the Buddha.





Lent

I don’t know what to give up for Lent…
carbs? cutting? cheese? cocaine? chocolate? crying?
casual commitment to Catholicism???
I am not afraid of Hell:
it is here, at home, in my head:
Hell is at home in my head.

​


HLR is a 20-something writer of CNF, short prose and poetry. She writes primarily about her own experiences with mental illness, grief and addiction. Her work has been featured or is forthcoming in The Gravity of the Thing, streetcake, Dear Damsels, Dust Poetry, In Parentheses, Chantarelle’s Notebook, Lunate, Re-side and The Hellebore, as well as several UK and US anthologies. HLR was born and raised in north London and is yet to escape. Read more at www.treacleheart.com or @treacleheartx