For the past five days,
all of my dreams have tasted like whiskey
and every morning
sounds like champagne glasses.
I suppose this makes me haunted.
Perhaps the devil is a woman.
The night we met
was surrounded by the circumstance
of a mysterious blaze.
In the town centre,
we never counted the bodies
or the screams heard.
I never found
who held the lighter
or told anyone else.
She
told me awful fairytales
of her last lover,
and the last man
to double cross
such a tempting tempest.
Where we met
was in the porch of her mansion
in the middle of sunny California.
In my head,
she wore a silk red nightgown
and smiled a ring off my finger.
We made love that night
until I forgot who I was
and became
the ruler of all things unequal.
I didn't see her again.
When the flames were too tall for me to eclipse,
the whole world was first to know.
I heard New Orleans
erupted into inferno last week.
I wonder if she
is enjoying herself there
and who
she is telling about me now.
Jul 3, 2018
Jul 3, 2018 at 10:34 AM UTC
I watch you
like I am watching the stars.
Four million things to see,
And three million more to do.
You,
My darling,
have even more than I.
This I realised
the night we cried
on the couch
with all the lights in the house replaced with a starry night.
You cry tears of satin,
with rose petals for eyes
and I would wish for your success
on every shooting star in the world.
I watch you
like I am watching the stars.
Please know
the night sky is brightest after implosion.
It blooms and grows
as you will
in your own enigmatic charisma.
A beautiful girl, yes
but oh,
so much more.
Jan 21, 2018
Jan 21, 2018 at 6:06 PM UTC
Tonight
we ran for hours
about cheap wine
and how
all my lovers
had made me feel
like a pin
dropping
in a room full of drums,
They pound and scream and wallop,
I am so infrequently heard.
You,
sometimes,
look at me like you've just heard my laugh
in a crowded room.
When in love,
some people turn deaf
and when you love someone
you hear yourself in them.
But
I think you see me,
I think you do.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 9:08 PM UTC
We were in the kitchen the night you told me. You said, nonchalantly, as you always have done, you said 'I like this life just fine'. I thought about this for ages the way one can feel a lover's hip cupped in the palm of their hand for hours after the encounter. Now, perhaps you meant when you were little, and I did not know you. There are stories of you running, cherub faced and limitless, through a sunflower field in dungarees with ***** shins and muddy faces; playing like one of the boys. Back when people used to tell you you looked just like your mother and she would squeeze your small hand tighter. You were her one grasp on this frightening universe. Perhaps, you have came to the reasonable conclusion she is proud of you. Maybe, instead, you were thinking of this house. This small red build up in Manchester where we have built our life and where the foundations of our affection derive from such purity. We will raise children and die in these halls, happy and old, knowing our love was the chief beauty of my entire existence. I even gave some thoughts to those nights in Greece where you were drunkenly, and magically, dancing with waiters until caramel sunrise brought you my way. I asked you the next morning what you meant, you smiled sleepily and kissed both of my cheeks with a hazy mouth. 'You love me in this life', you said, 'and such is all I have ever wanted in this world'.
So yes, I love you in this lifetime, and all my other lifetimes. I love you forever and shall adore you just as ferociously in the eternal falsification of our afterlife together. If there is ever any doubt, I wish to spend the rest of my life by your side and then whatever happens next is ours too. If I can, then I will....
But, I like this life just fine.
Jan 14, 2018
Jan 14, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
When
the city of London exploded,
I cried alone for days.
Was that it?
Crying for a man overseas
who hung painting
from a west indie tree?
Some Imperial freedom
from which we develop.
The city explodes
and buzzes
for days afterwards.
I think of every word
in the mouth
of every woman
in every building in town.
Dracula
comes to the Metropolitan centre
and we gossip
about men
who write like Bysshe Shelley
and love like Mary.
They have angels
about their homes,
I have heard soliloquised,
and knaves in the room.
I sob,
I am like them, too.
The primadonna
baby pink fin de siècle
will not free me.
Where
affection is a
concept of avant garde
and of
the outer versus inner
comes absolutely nothing
but
a dissolution
of scientific certainty.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 6:00 AM UTC
If you
take nothing else from this,
we all change.
Know,
you will leave this town one day
and the all the buildings,
and statues,
and concrete slabs
will miss you endlessly,
but you need life
and you will go
anyway.
I know
how home feels sometimes
and how
Sunday nights
feel like magic
especially on Monday mornings.
In four years,
home will mean something different.
A hand,
the smell of jasmine,
and your little lad
who looks so much like your wife
it will give you faith in the world.
Home
is where skies are always pink
and you are
always in bed
before the street lamps turn on
where
it is always sunny
and where
there will always be an
I love you
to be heard.
Most things equivocate change,
some evade it
all together.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 5:53 AM UTC
After
I found her in our house
I burnt it to the ground
one million times over.
That place
built for you
with mine own cells.
Created
with lavender walls
and rose petal front doors,
and you
hiding her among the weeds.
Constructing a home
out of paper airplanes
and coloured ties.
My heaven,
and yours,
frolic in the garden.
When I found her in our home,
our home became a house.
Her body
more than this mattress fills.
Her perfume
swells the vents.
This house
comes alive with her
prowess.
And I hate it here.
When
I found her in my house
all Hell
erected beneath me.
oh,
the futility
trying to **** someone
who is already dead to you.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 5:49 AM UTC
I wonder if he knows,
after he died
I went digging for him.
How sad it is
for someone to exist forever
and still be gone.
Should this be seen,
I have loved you most in death.
More beautiful somehow,
some ethereal,
natural sense
of serendipity
and I still
did not wade into the river.
I was scared of what I might find.
Part of me
wishes we had gone together.
Our hands
rot into each other.
I become you
becoming earth.
Now that I miss you,
I see you more everyday/
I know
if these words are in the world now,
you and I have both passed.
I hope we are reunited somewhere.
Clasping fingers,
touching lips,
where
every day
it is New Years Eve.
Dec 2, 2017
Dec 2, 2017 at 5:43 AM UTC
I saw them today
bundled in a pile
in my kitchen somewhere.
In them,
I see two children,
bright as sun,
good as gold,
foolish as the malcontent.
The nights
we loved,
the nights
we couldn't bare to.
And despite all,
in these photos
we are happy.
I keep it this way forever.
Nov 18, 2017
Nov 18, 2017 at 5:42 AM UTC
Once I loved an Irish lad,
beauty in overwhelming purity.
More northern than I,
and loved with the strength
of one thousand mountains.
The grassy mounds
of his affection
was where I spent six months at a time.
They all called him common,
my strapping Irish boy,
but from the exclusion of wealth
comes wealth enough.
The ultimate higher love.
Nov 16, 2017
Nov 16, 2017 at 5:39 PM UTC