three light years;
three years of light,
bright
hands held tight.
our cocooned love
hangs hibernating,
i long to see our wings,
my dear.
a careless youth,
a sleeping shell,
will not a child raise;
show your weight,
i want to carry more
than just time.
syrup pancakes with cold milk from the fridge, as the sun comes up. the end of summer clings to the breeze, easing into the window, wedged open with an old newspaper in the last sleepy moments of the evening before. the spiders are moving in, their long spindly legs tucked into the high spots. perhaps they hope you will not notice them, for they want cosy corners, just like you.
they have cosy corners, just like you.
end game
the end of the kisses, spitting cinders
overturned sofas
dance of feathers
undone,
severed and shaved
as the straw
from the scarecrow.
heads full of homework,
a makeshift skyline
of yet-to-be
paints itself across the dark,
as young love
rings it’s soon-forgotten bell
my latest poem for sudden denouement:
we sleep in separate beds,
to clear our clouded heads.
we keep our secrets wrapped
in gaudy signatures and glasses cracked
over organ flourishes.
we have rooms upon rooms,
some shortage of love
made up in statement wallpaper and bespoke furniture.
the sweeping staircase
holds centre place,
a marble decoy
feels as cold as the flesh
behind the welcome and the wine;
we keep our hands apart,
modern art
stands for wedding photos developed unseen,
money sadly spent
on a white pretence
that fill so many baby dreams;
tradition screams.
mais oui,
it seems that playground jests
have found their poorest manifest
in our little life of theatre.
mama, he thinks our homespun play
is swallowed like tequila,
he believes the empty nursery unnoticed,
sitting in his claw-foot bathtub
with a beard of bubbles,
oblivious to the pool of mockery
in which he is submerged;
mama, it would not take…
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she was something of Saturn. gaseous, you might laugh, but what human isn’t?
no, she was Saturn – one body encased by a ring, or in her case, many rings from many suitors, many futures.
but it came, as the sad things do, that she died a Pluto.
how i wish i could give you all of me, but a fickle heart can reek an Exodusian plague across the deserts of one’s life. it seems i was not heavily armed enough to fight against that which has already come; as the first born found their final fate under the cover of diseased darkness, so first love is born to die, beneath a buzzing swarm of doubt.
i could have had her in the rain; when all attempts to burn and paint herself to perfection were soiled, she was left with only her words to charm me with. and some might say, the dance of a woman undressed is far purer than one all decked up.
the city glitters after dark, busy busy night-owls shuffle and scuffle in their white glass nests. and we are watching, tired eyes and heavy bags on a faraway train.
