saw             a                smile
caught on the c h a n n e l s
of the WiFi
like      w a v e s                    goodbye

cutthroat bed-warmer
i warned you.
to underhandedly procure
the duvet
in a dubious midnight heist
is a violation
of the “Pillow-Talk Three Truce”.
there are no second chances
in this
quilted coalition you concocted.
by daybreak, after a night of unrepentant tickling, kissing, or any some such
sleep disturbancing,
perhaps my arms will be laid down
in a show of piety.

to be the
little spoon by the afternoon.

the name I’m calling in the night
is the ghost of yours.
an apparition
wraith-like, transparent
against my lips.
whispered in the witching hour
alone in the dark,
to summon something
or you.

floor to ceiling windows
stacked two upon two
capillaries bursting with office work.

neon signs and patina streaked doors
opening up valves at lunch times
Pret A Manger bloodletting.

final call at The Angel
heralding the end of the work week
teams of cleaners flush the system
to restart for the following Monday.

calling a lost lover
to begin to head on over
this bedroom was only a boarding gate
and this bed your layover.

while scurrying in the underground
he walked like the caves connecting
the city was his birthright
like the current in the earth grounded him
the roaring trains
his adoring subjects

what a moment
brushing past a subterranean prince
glancing at granite jaw
his knowing smile
hands that could have carved a space
out of me.

i turned away as
to see the darkness of the tunnels
peering back at you on the platform
taunting you to jump
was not a commitment i could make.

kiss me so the vines in my veins can snake out to hold you

This     gap
between out lips as the kisses become longer
that     vital
intake of air to keep the love/boredom/sympathy/pity
alive    until
this is snuffed out in the hope of something tangible

THE TIME WE SPENT WAS BORROWED ON BAD CREDIT.

1. We both knew this
2. I didn't care
3. You saw this ending
4. An end that wasn't even fair

so now i'm not speaking and yet you still fight

cause you know that means i would win,
i would be right.

i haven't seen you stay in one place for more than a few days,
like laying some roots will result in some catastrophic meltdown
like being noticed will cause sirens to scream out
"i want to be wanted, i want to be wanted, i want to be wanted".

isnt this the point, to pop up shop and take what little charity those
who know what being loveless is like can provide. in short bursts a heart can be mended, the wounds sewn up and put up for sale like a clean bill of emotional health.

till the view begins to stagnate and the bones of all the half-healed ex-lovers begin to ache inside, the embers of a burnt out husk in the chest smoulders with the promise of "it'll be better elsewhere."

"they might want me elsewhere." "someone will love you elsewhere."

time can lighten the crushing loss of another.

Two lovers standing
parallel on a street
late in Shorditch
graffiti came billowing
out from their ankles
spray painting their distance
in moments
like a gap in a kiss
could paint murals.

it seems that all Love is,
is finding the snippets of those who once
we adored
in the bodies of strangers and hoping
this time it will be reciprocated.

i understand the Greeks
When they wrote of boys
turning to men as
“in the flush of their strength”.
as if the tides of youth,
had burst it’s banks
flooding childhood, like the Mycenae
against Troy.

coulda let you hold me close,
love saw something deeper I suppose.

we measured the time
by what infatuation took us
that year.
Year 7 was flittering
8 was unfounded
9 was groundbreaking but
10 was changing
Year 11’s love might still be reigning.

you never forget those 5 years.
even if you'd like too.

-a poets best and worst moment.

"i just thought the sky looked better behind you."

i spoke back into the echo
of an earlier cry
an
outburst of comfort
attempting
to heal the older me.

i dug my patch of dirt
with my fingers in repentance

this formality before the hurt
this action my penance.

like these roots that roam
far beyond their means

this heart can't be home
to any semblance of honesty it seems.

with the soil                              a cradle
weighing me down
i see a vision of a mottled crown
the coldness seeping in
and for growth to start somewhere within.

Hi there Poet,

Your presence is always precious
here in my home,
Whether it’s lovesick confessions
or a need to not be alone.

These white walls and boxes
to which you can write any sins away,
or to just play dally with linguistic foxes,
to make quicker a boring day.

To scrawl out words black
to find redress and re-rhyme,
to release and not hold back
to find home-truths, to take your time.

I can take you at your word
be it dishevelled, battered or grey,
your weary voice can be heard
to make some weight fall away.

But now Dear Poet
it’s time to end this tune,
you’ve written a new one? Well show it,
the one hidden in your drafts since June.

you passed by the river
and the reflection was cast on
my curve of bank.
the current
lost it’s strength at the mouth
like words whispered in defeat.
were it not for my knowledge
of those who have drowned
i would be breathing the reeds and water
and beating against the overflow.
i think it’s human nature
fight for something
for the only thing we know.

like-a-night-terror
slip pin g  out of vie w
                                  the words elude.
  so keep there
the                 eyes
     unfocused
at paper or/// screen till the sentence---- rushes into sight.    
              break it.
                        ^^                  butcher it.
     keep it.<<      >>  analyse it.
  toss it .                                         kiss it.

where w a  s it?                  was it ee ee e even here?

a tremor in the night
awoken without the memory
(all poets say is a million different "I can't love you any other way.")
of a line i wanted to write.

it’s the unwillingness to      (stop)
start
imitations                           (one-way)
of genuine
conversations                  (relationships)

i take shelter in your grooves
growing stronger in the curves
like whetstones smoothing and sharpening me down
to make a fine point

i wanted you to build with me
to push
me
up gently.

see if this rust
can turn into something beautiful
to see if rust
can be turned to gold

To the God which determines the lifetime of Poets i ask,

let all the poets die with their hearts no longer on their sleeves;

but finally in their throats.
so in our final moments
all the words never written
can, at last,
be spoke.