I don’t have the words for you yet
But when I do they will be glorious
And subtle and sweet and alluring
And full of depth.
And people will dozely mumble them
On the train in the morning on their way to work.
And the birds will whistle out their melody in that way birds will.
And the gentle grumbling of engines in the distance will murmur it’s agreement.
But I will rest safe in the knowledge
That I could never sum you up.
The mood was
Deliciously awkward
As I pushed your hair
Back over your ear
And told you I had such
A wrenching of the heart
And the uttermost desire
To kiss you then,
Beneath the yellow flicker,
With disconnected and
Recycled syllables
Popping and fizzing in
Our ears and all around us.
Trace your hand’s shadow
in purple ink on the wall.
My life is complete.
“Why did you make me
Walk so far. You said the
Bus stop was closer. And
Now my feet hurt and my
Back a bit too. And my fingers
Are too cold and my head is
Too warm. Silly thing”
But secretly,
I liked walking you to your
Midnight busstop,
Through the cold corners
Of this town,
Even if we’re not in love.
Cos I don’t feel like a gentleman
Not nearly enough, not to mention
A plain ol’ human being.
And besides,
On the walk home
Alone along the canal,
With its sound sleeping ducks
And its floating armadas
Of forgotten goods,
I can think what I’m
Going to say to a
Pair of bright blue eyes
That I’ve been dreaming of
For a while now.
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.
You had three dark spots
in a line
down your back,
more or less in line
with your gently curving spine.
Your very own Orion’s belt
you used to call it.
Each one of us,
you would say,
has our own constellation,
we have but to find it.
I didn’t care for it much,
I have to say,
but I liked the way
the corners of your mouth
turned up when you frowned,
so I stayed quiet.
But now,
when I look up to the night sky,
I find myself tracing you out,
amongst the stars.
We lie
hand in hand,
your head in my lap,
under the shade of a low tree
beside a Normandy coastline,
in a field full of
white stone crosses.
And as the wind blows
huge, silent, grey-white clouds
across an otherwise clear sky,
and the hair across your still face,
I think about how many lives were lost
how much blood and tears were spilled,
so that we two could lie here,
so that I could watch you sleep in my arms
and dream of the future
and your silent charms.
Sometimes
you pour your heart out
in to a few empty tea cups
to see how it settles and warms.
Sometimes you chew
on the remnants of days
to taste their dull bitterness again.
Clouds pass
and rain falls in the garden.
The wind whispers her name
and you fall asleep
knowing that it isn’t for pity
but for a brighter sense of the world
that you strive everyday.
Spreading out a map of the world,
you colour in all the places
you’ve been in your dreams.
Paris is deep blue
and all the southern states
are gently shaded in pastels.
The coasts have been highlighted
so that they’re slightly heavier.
This poem that you have been writing
is filled with too much of her.
It imprints the ominous outline of her smile
and pulls the strands out of you one by one.
Forget history.
Forget sentiment.
Perhaps some things were meant
for you alone. To hold and harden
like the brightest diamond.
Your eyes are roses.
All that red blossoms and grows.
The long green stems stretch back far,
curling through the gaps in your skull
and out your nasal passages.
The thorns that stick in my hands
are long and sharp and matted
with the blood of those
that have come before.
Your teeth flash
black and green.
Your smile sickens.
I reflect on how I am
somewhat a gardener,
as I prune back the bitterness.
Your hair is a tangle of weeds
which I delicately remove,
my hands growing red and
itchy with their juices.
Your roots are thick and strong.
They stretch deep. The problem is
you’ve implanted yourself
in the shadow of a great
weeping willow on the
darker side of the garden.
Beside a wall that limits and abuses.
You need to be brought out
into the sun of summer days,
I intend to relocate you to a
nice spot, beside the chrysanthemums
and my well kept lawn,
in the warmer part of the
garden and my heart.
With all the world
buzzing and twirling around
beneath a complacent sky
while I lie,
summer skinned,
the cool breeze
blowing gently
on my stubborn nipples.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 