Simples

So there’s this girl,
right,
as there often is.
And she puts a certain
spring into my step

like when you know
that if things keep going
the way they’ve been going
you might end up
doing something
you most definitely
will regret.

But what the hell,
life is short right?
And if not, then at least
I have some time to make
amends. So I’ll make my
mistakes now and
learn from them.

Besides,
when she smiles
all I can think of
is her.

Poem Favoured 090828

Just a little something
I’d like to be able to read
to a certain someone
some day.

hate blows a bubble of despair into
-
e. e. cummings

hate blows a bubble of despair into

hugeness world system universe and bang

-fear buries a tomorrow under woe

and up comes yesterday most green and young

pleasure and pain are merely surfaces

(one itself showing, itself hiding one)

life’s only and true value neither is

love makes the little thickness of the coin

comes here a man would have from madame death

nevertheless now and without winter spring?

she’ll spin that spirit her own fingers with

and give him nothing (if he should not sing)

how much more than enough for both of us

darling. And if i sing you are my voice

Protected: Haiku for Sally

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Motorbikes.

I think I know now
why I have always loved
a Portuguese night.

I had thought it may have been
the sweet lemon scent
that accompanies the darkness
after the heat of day.

Or that it was the returning
from some happy meal,
with wines and family
and warm smiles.

Perhaps, I mused, it is
that I remember sunny days
of sand and sea
and ice cream
as a child,
and I carry them with me.

But I think I know now.
It is as my eyes are on the brink
of closing to more pleasant dreams
and from some further distant street
twin engines roar
and then retreat.

Here at home
not enough people own
motorbikes.
Or at least,
they do not ride them
off into the night.

Bray

A crisp and golden autumn evening
The air rife with the realness of life,
And the bells.
And the bells.

We had delicately shared some
Fish and chips down on the sand
Yet still your fingers tasted of
Vinegar and love.

And hand in hand
We rode out
To find the night.

Way up in the night.

There was a perfect crescent moon.
And it lay beside a single star
Way up in the night.
They discussed the wind.
The comings and goings of it and how
it rustled your hair
as you twirled in your new dress.

All the lamps were golden and strung out
to my half closed eyes,
each eye lash diffracting your beauty.
Everything was fluid and full and tangible
each seperate taste on my tongue.

And when you’d finished dancing
we went inside to not turn on the lights.

Ode to an Ugly Poet.

The floppiest golden locks,
like pieces of silken sunshine,
adorn your crown.
And that wry smile.
They wait on your every word
as if it could sustain them
indefinitely.

They swoon at your emerald eyes.
Emerald because
it makes a sound so mellifluous and smooth
as it trickles and ripples from your moist lips.
Emerald because
it always seemed the colour
that a poet’s eyes
should be.

The casual flick of the wrist,
a flash in the dark recesses of your mind,
and heaven on earth on paper is created.
Ready to be published,
marketed,
used,
stolen.

Yours the face on every cover issue,
yours the name on every pair of fleeting lips,
you the flavour of this eternal, ethereal month.

Every poet must dream.

Tender.

Snippity snap

I was listening open-jawed,
wide
to that soprano
you didn’t like.
I could tell.
Highs and lows. Your cheeks
would burn.

You were playing board games
over your legs.
No ladders,
but I could spy snakes galore.
Biblical proportions.
And they were such that
I had to stare at all the polished shoes
of the cellists in front of me.
But I was stealing
secretly.
Glances of you. To sell off to myself later.
Oh, what an honest thief!

On the bus back,
before we had to get out and walk,
you held my arm in your hand,
Your little grip on my heart,
And slept slept slept.
And I was so warm
and the moment so beat up with hammers
that I tried my best to cry quietly
so I wouldn’t wake you.

If I could post an ad.

Wanted: one, single female
to fill the lonely gap in my heart
and make me whole.

I don’t care what you look like,
where you’re from,
what you know,
who you know,
what you say,
what you do.
Treat me like shit if you want,
I won’t give one.

Only,
tell me that you love me
because I’m fed up of being liked.

I want this

to sit in a tree for hours on end
and feel like I’m
making a difference.