Anwenx

My metal heart no longer beats a drum In mercury and arteries of tin. Instead, my circuit board keeps the rhythm, And I keep all my loneliness within. My eyes are glass, but still I see the Earth And all its people, and wish that I was one, But that is not my place, was not my birth, And so I turn my back against the Sun. Immobile is my time, but not my mind. It lives and breathes as any human should. If one day in the future I should find That I could live among them, then I would. My prison is my silver shell and frame, And yet it is my consciousness I blame.

My rubber egg is not much, at a glance. It seems to be a mere rubber ball. But if you give my egg a second chance, You'll see that that is not the case at all. My egg is made of rubber, that is true, But from the corner of your weary eye You might think it was from a cockatoo, Or from a hen, but that would be a lie. The point that I am trying hard to make Is not that you are foolish, or love birds. I'm asking why you thought this egg was fake – Was it your eyes, or was it just my words? Perhaps you're just intolerant, or worse; Afraid of eggs who tell their tales in verse.

Six limbs sprout from the centre, lifeless arms. A disc-like structure forms your fragile roots. Your leaves are coloured brightly, china charms. You bear no petals, flowers, scents or fruit, And yet your purpose could be greater still Than trees that grow and give life to the Earth. Disguised as something bare and lost, until It is my wish to quench my daily thirst. And then, mug tree, you spring once more to life. Your leaves become the vessels of the Sun As hot elixir melts away the strife In caffeine form, of all and everyone. Oh, mug tree, at first glance you seem so poor, But you're the only tree that I adore.

You were supposed to be sad when your husband died. Margaret Harper from number 32 had sold the house and found God. Diane McDonald had moved to Spain and disappeared from the face of the Earth. Anne Malone was sitting contented in her kitchen listening to the radio and drinking a cup of tea. She had been writing an 18th birthday card for her niece when she found out that she'd become a widow. 'Widow'. The word reminded her of melancholy old women sitting in castles in the Highlands, swathed in black and wailing in rocking chairs. It hadn't really surprised her to hear that her husband had died of a heart attack at the tender age of 55. I

"Should I leave and come in again?" Will asked, closing the door slowly behind him and raising one eyebrow in the way that had always slightly irritated David. "What do you mean?" "You look like you could quite happily kill someone." "Oh. Sorry. There wasn't any water in the kettle." Will folded his arms. "I'm hoping there's more to it than that," he said. "Otherwise I'm scared that I've been living with a child for the past four years." David chewed his lip before replying. He had to phrase this delicately, sugar-coat it. "There was something else," he said slowly, pausing again. Oh God. There really was going to be no other option. I

Life is an open narrative, and there's no point in pretending that it's not. Even after you're dead, your plotlines and cliffhangers continue and bleed into the lives of others. Life isn't a cycle. It's a line. Until we start walking around dragging our knuckles and picking lice out of each other's hair then I refuse to believe that life repeats itself. It doesn't. One thing happens and then it's gone and something else happens, growing out of the shadows of the previous event. We have to accept what's happened because we can't undo it. Get out of my brain. Get out. Stop casting your ebony shadow over everything I do and see and say and turn