the rain is coming

it is hot     & wet
& ten o’clock
when you turn up
in a black
cab
a red
hibiscus
in your hair

it is hot     & wet
& ten o’clock
when we talk
on the roof
in a high
bombardment
of positive ions
it is hot     & wet

& ten o’clock
when the last
hopeful swoop
of a  fruit bat
finds a limb & is still
so some
thing will
happen    it will

the rain is coming

I miss you sea
I miss you in the morning
I miss your fingers
and the faces you trace
the faces you assume in sand
I miss the feel of you
cool on my skin
I miss the sting of you
but most of all I miss you when I sleep
when you whisper the most
I know you are there
you are a quiet chaos I  don't quite hear

when I last saw you
you said you wanted a break

from the grind of being apart
you pulled me to the floor

in a torrent of please
and be with me today

and I know by the lick of you
that every drop is true

and it's easy for me to play a part
*you are the flood I compare my tears to

with two flat thumbs
I am trying  
to work  
a couple of knots
out of your shoulder blade
one not is you  
one definitely not is me
yet I'm tracing
warm circles
kneading  
the cut of  your spine
needing
the cut of your spine!
should I?
should I  
be kneading
the  distance  
between us thin ?
I could complete
this instant massage
by simply needing  

*the scent of your skin

when you came back
it snowed
& we took photos.
There were flakes
of sleet
in your hair
about to melt...
Later
the moon
was a frozen
coin
and I was a flake
watching
from a window
pane

there is hope here            the morning sun
leaves loaves of warm light on the doorstep

after he left - leaving a letter –
she realised the room had no windows

the light claimed a green pear
as she drank sweet tea

at 10.09 she was required
to generate her own light:

*in Café Gigi she generated her own light

we think we understand gravity
we think it is weak
we assume some apples will fall

in fields of much less colour
the sound is flatter
the leaves are damper

gravity hangs too heavy on some
heavier than we think on some
or admit on some

it is natural to reduce it
we all know a guy who says
some apples just fall ka-plunk

and that's gravity   get over it!
knowing we can't actually
get over it

not really!
I know a guy who thinks
gravity works in multiple dimensions

and we can only account
for part of its strength
so the rest remains felt but unseen

That would explain the dimmer light
the clenched off drowning of sound;
that would explain this half-lit world!

the blurred nerves  in the going of motion…
I have adjusted accordingly.
I have a skeleton crew

to keep things ticking over
so I can take the weight
of all those other places.

everyone who passes through the  house of James
plays a part in their second story   story
Nick is not of  the kitchen
but he’s ghosting there

and he tries
he tries   with words  
he tries with dance
he tries so hard we barely see him!

James is thirsty!
and that’s the other story...
He's drying *******
on an old gas cooker

when ‘Phelie   blows in
on a colleague  
o’ Koz Bar leaves  
hi  poising   cat-ready  

on a brown couch
on a couch
that remembers no shape
though she tries

she tries to make an impression
on our blurred nerves too
beginning with alrigh'
which is  hi too   but with feeling  

this hi assumes we know
drama gril and da Richmond crew
And I try to say
I mean I am trying to say

the couch remembers no shape
I have no memory
of drama teachers or  michelle
yelling again darling with feeling this time

then she tells
me what a lonely time
it has been since the…addiction -
michelle poising there

upon the word
like a  Lepidopterist’s pin
on au-then-tic-i-ty -
isn’t it enough that I said it?

now that it’s a dead thing
it spreads its terrible wings
and 'Phelie double drops
her second story    hello  hello

we lean into a kiss  hello
her lips are not dry
though she smokes her mouth un-wet
she tries to say hello

by laughing at
I've given up not-smoking
and we talk
and kiss  a fresh hello

undress hello
touch hello
leading to a breathless hello   hello   hello
and now  I am saying,

*again darling with feeling this time

Willesden - from a cab -
is vein-blue at four-o-two
transfusion complete

this is just to say
you are my
stolen
plum London

and I can't wait
to sink my teeth
into the cool
bruised-light

of a late summer
Saturday
night
*please forgive me…

we lie in the sun

we let our hands hold each other
we are easy with each other
we make promises
we tell each other impossible stories
we never challenge inconsistent details
we say we belong together
we push our beds together
we make glorious mistakes
we push our hearts together
we squeeze each other

we lie in the sun

after a few bottles o’ Tom
at the world’s end
I start talking
to Karen whose fingers
were freezing at first
& Pru
a friend o’ hers.
But it was Karen  - woollen  
pale
Australian -
who started
wanting my pockets  
in the mitre
who began teasing me
with are m’ hands cold? Are they?
as we steadied each other
on the slippery cobbles   close.
It was Karen
who started
whispering warmly
on a wheel
o’ ice groaning :
we kissed once in London
& almost there again
I replied:
I know!  was  Xmas Eve
Heathrow somewhere

a royal mile in the snow
was all it took to thaw   *I know!

the rain is coming

it is hot     and wet
and ten o’clock
when you turn up
in a black
cab
a red
hibiscus
in your hair

it is hot     and wet
and ten o’clock
when we talk
on the roof
in a high
bombardment
of positive ions
it is hot     and wet

and ten o’clock
when the last
hopeful swoop
of a  fruit bat
finds a limb and is still
so some
thing will
happen    and it will
you promise me it will

the rain is coming