Pretending to be

Outside the car
In the dark of this November night
The wind howls.
That old familiar wolf call
Whistles and twists above me.

But I am deaf to it
And to the encroaching cold
That seeps into the cabin.

I am trapped
In a bubble of you
3 feet in every direction.
Still. Calm.
Eyes flicker back and forth.
The odd word rings out.

The quiet tears that I cry
Are not my own.
They are yours.
They belong to you

The bass of the car stereo
Drones, dies and hums static.
It drags me back to reality.
Drowns me in the stuff.

I take a deep breath and a moment
To work up the courage
To get out and open the gate.


The Spector had a heart shaped hole in her just waiting to be pasted over.

You can tell it’s a good song
When you slow down
So you don’t make it home
Before it’s over.

Select weaknesses in me
Set fire to my brain
And spiderweb around my heart.

I hold the glass up to my eye
But I can’t tell whether it’s
Too full or too empty.
For certain, it’s draining fast.

The piano may not be firewood
But it sets a merry blaze.
And the cloth rests over my face,
Over my eyelids,
Like a hood.

If everyone knows it’s going to hurt,
Then why wasn’t I expecting it?
One day I turned around
And realised I was fucked

And there’s nothing I can do about it
Except take the clock off the wall
And set about winding it back again.
Right back to the beginning.


I could see clearly the
smooth pink of your lips
as they met and parted.
It reminded me of days
and of my love’s gentle sighs.
Your fingers also continued to fall
and rise and each time seemed
opaque and free.

And suddenly it was as if
love and fear and all the other
green prejudices of our minds,
that pour out on wet and windy nights,
were just droplets of rain
on a train window
and could be as easily wiped away.
Leaving only the creases
at the edges of your

Clare de Lune

In a field of watermelons
and tall grass,
right in the middle,
sits a little girl
with curly flaxen hair
and little red rounded cheeks,
smiling a somewhat toothed grin
spitting seeds into a wide meadow pond
and laughing.
Laughing like she knows the world.

In the branches of the trees
of the dark forrest that overlooks the meadow,
the watermelon field,
little birds,
bright blues and reds,
twitter and fling themselves
from twig to twig.
Down below
the eyes of dark things watch.
Thick salivating tongues
red as blood.

But at the sun’s rays they hish and turn away.
At this lightness,
this ease of tone,
they screw their eyes up and their claws in
and retreat.

By the pond the little girl
has begun to dance
to music that only she seems to hear.
And over the brow of a hill
her mother’s voice comes seeping
in warm amber tones,
lilting roundedly and softly on the breeze.
The girl, hearing her mother’s voice,
turns homewards
running her hand through the grass as she goes,
as the light turns to golden twilight.

And as the night approaches,
in slow smooth strides,
and far away in the sky
the stars link arms and gaze down
on the little girls closing eyes,
her sleepy smile.