Even the pigeons can see the puddles
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and scraping wings as they go
And maybe they will dare to disturb
The still liquid reflections,

But I do not think they will look at me,
Not in the mirrors on the street floors
And not during the purgatory
Of waiting out the bus stop storms,

And the magpies come in twos,
(Nana told me
What that meant once)
But now I forget, and now I refuse
To believe that there is any meaning
In two magpies singing, alas
I do not think they will sing for me.

Wait for me there,
By the crescent tree
Oh, nature’s stair, built
From bark and root,
Grown from fallen fruit.

Wait for me there,
Where the ivy clothes
Swirl into white skin
And where the fawns
Go to moot and sing.

Wait for me there,
By the shallow pond,
Lie down at the bank,
Tangle in the lilies, and
Wait for the thirsty fillies.

Wait for me there,
Down by the thin ridge,
Where rabbits sit
And chew the earth,
Bit by bit.

Wait for me there,
Between the rock
And chiseled stump
Where moss never grows,
And dirt begins to lump.  

Wait for me there,
Where the promise is kept
And my time is unspent,
Wait for me there, darling
Show me how you care.

Spaces form between foreign fingers,
Resting hands go stale on oak tables
Where infatuation peeks and lingers.

Cups and candles placed like pawns
Waiting for battle, cups and candles
Lay between love and smiles.

Plates take their seats, carrying
Conversations and dripping mistakes
From one mouth to another.

Glasses touching and kissing,
Stirring desire into love, and
Teaching courage how to dance.

Knives and forks lay dormant,
Imprisoned to the landscape
By moving lips and perpetual talks.

Chatter comes floating, bound
To the bubbles and the foaming,
And ending at ears steaming.

Spilt love soaks the evening,
Washed out by late night dreaming,
Disguised as buoyant thinking.

Moonlight covers the pebbles gathered,
Soaking the shore in shade and fog, walk along
This beachfront, in sandals and white socks.
Take your toes and your feet, and embark
In the shallows of the sea, splash
And splash at the sand’s edge, until ***** and fish
Swim towards your disturbing intent,
Forgo their cares, send fish and crab skipping,
And splish and splish at the water’s end.

The mermaids are in wake, grieving their friends,
And pouring tears into the waves, they cry in song
Wallowing out loud the ocean’s fables, and
Stirring the great waters with their lurking tails,
Bubbles form where their tears have dwelled,
Carrying their grief to the surface, and popping
Once they touch where night is held, releasing
The weight from their sullen faces, and
Now the mermaids may smile again,
Their songs shift from misery to mirth, and
The moon smiles back, kissing new light
Upon the cheeks of the emerald earth.

The chain is brought back to you,
You distrbued the *****, and you disturbed
The fish, you distubured the waters.
The mermaids, they never bothered
To gaze upon your crimes, they never even
Bothered to give you their time, they sang
Not to you, but they sang for your sins, healing
What you could not, and sending
Your demons back, back to the rot and rock.

Resume your normal day, walk your dog
Along the paved waterway, and sing
Your songs of joy and hope, and hope
To settle near pebble and boat. Most things
Now make you smile, crack a smirk
To the ramblers on their Sunday travels,
Teach the postman and teach the milkman
What the mermaids have taught, show
Them the meaning of the mermaids’ song.

Join your limbs, curl your toes,
Muffle the children, and knead the dough.
Pour the milk, and drink it straight
Scold  the postman  for being late.

Greet your lover and whisk the butter,
Gently frown, and skip away in laughter.
Speak in tongues, and kiss the door
Raise a glass and tighten the cord.

Stack the books and climb on top,
Stumble a little before jumping off.
Hang like the cherries upon the cherry tree,
Blossoms now falling, you are now free.

The pavements creek down London Road,
Slabs of stone lay uneven, waiting
For a misstep or perhaps a purposeful tumble
So that the day may begin.
A young lad, no older than twenty,
Takes the day’s virginity, and yet
He gains nothing from the exchange,
Left to curl into the floor, strapped
To an overturned slab.

And on this fragile surface, this new
Home of his, he separates the loose
Fragments of pavement into shapes
And size, hoping he might find
Some pattern and rhyme.

But the floor is unforgiving
And misleading, offering
No rhythm and no reason.

All this perpetual solidarity, all
This miserable conformity and lack
Of understanding takes a toll
On his youthful hands as the shards
Pierce his skin and convince blood
To pour out onto the streets.

He is tough but his skin has retired,
His exterior is withered and begins
To smell of a gloomy musk, and yet
His skeleton still dances eagerly on
Behind all the frowning rot.

Passerbys readily move on, dodging
His numb and hopeful soul
As they know it will soon become
A sunken and nameless corpse.
But, until then,
Our street bound friend
Seeks desire and fortune, but luck
Seeks privilege and passion, leaving
Only the welcoming dusk
To bring kindness to the streets.

He is not the only one, the sun rise
Washes dead men ashore, dry
And unloved bodies find themselves
Motionless and dull, glued intimately
To the jagged street floor.

But these bodies once lived!
Their fingers thrived on tobacco dust
And half burnt poorly rolled papers.

Their mouths fed on second hand
Crumbs, leaving a foul aftertaste
Perhaps guilt or malicious tongues.  

Their voices garnered an audience,
Proving uneducated souls could please
Others through word and love.  

Their eyes witnessed
The intricacies of the changing seasons,
They saw autumn wilt and winter born.

Their hearts pumped pure, drugs
And blood rushed through streams
In their arms and powered
Their merry croaking lungs.

And they were once loved.
Indeed, they were loved.

Perhaps not by their mums, or
Unborn sons but by existence.
Life’s brilliance dwells
In the dead men on our streets,
A reminder that merely existing
Is a burden, but also
The greatest responsibility.

Out there hides mischief made,
Adorned in the smiles of tariffs
And trades
But in here, in these construed
And garnered walls
Slumbers the chief of miss timing
And improper confiding.
Untalented men take fruitless lies and
Place them brick by brick, until they
Stick, stick,
Stick. A miss timing at this point
Will mark the novice liars, and
Blemish their masked desires. Perhaps,
It’s best to leave this hapless labour
To the more well-tempered neighbour
So that they (like us) can weave
In the lies and lust
Of saying ‘I love you’ rather
Than naught. Perhaps,
This is the better choice, to lock
The voices inside, and silence
Those ever so distraught by our
Unconditional decisions and thoughts.
It is unanimous then, the neighbour
Shall take the job and you
(the inexperienced boy)
Shall vacate your dreams, and bow
Down to the universe like a
Daft begging dog. Perhaps,
Then (and only then) we ought to throw
The inexperienced boys asunder
So that they may learn
How to dance with the thunder.