Next day there's no gaze, -----.
We never met except our irises
I caught like butterflies in some
Cosmic net of sorts. Watchers.
That bus stop holds something
Now you might not even know
It holds Momentary weight.
Maybe the road crushed under
The weight of locked windows.
Stained glass cracks though,
you and I are ----- so here's
A 'nice to have seen you so
Many times' I hope you -----.

This house we share is a house of howls
Listen. Hidden in locked rooms and
On shared beds our breathless laments
Leak out like slowly drained bottles
Our breath taken by our shared mentality
And sole calls for you. We are wolves.
We are wolves and we prowl sound
Crouched, willing prey awaiting never near.
Crown us with calls we are prey only
To the lack. We are not the only pack.

'A howl heard once lost
Amid life's wanting
Aching.
Pitiful urgent need for more
And yet again a howl heard to
Me vibrate my very being and
I for you cry back.
Allow again your soul, if let
me, swallow unknown,
For we, to be, eternally.'

There's no such thing as incognito
(I + Outside = Eyes) when
Beetles stall with headlights like lamps
And street-bustles are littered with head-lights.
(colours x two = terror)
Current thoughts buzz hidden by swarms
Of awkward car crashes on side roads.
(specimen + street = analysed 'I')
Skin stretches tight dried out under
X rays and equations.
(expressions as such hit like irony
a certain lens is needed = answers)
my answer is not incognito.

I see my bed as a landscape;
There are dips like valleys and
Hopeful mountains just begging for
The bird's eye view.
But I get to see it properly,
Burrowing under and waving at giants,
They live there under the natural formations
Of empty gaps, the hollows under hills,
bigger than those spaces
Between stars and time and
Smaller than those between a child's teeth.
They pinch and bite.
If I wait long enough
The open maw of the open world
swallows down my closing thoughts,
My head thumps pillowed lips
And sleep chews me up and spits
Into the morning, so I groan and clutch
At hidden things in dotted gaps, holding on.
I have ran out of toothpaste.

there are interludes in life like this,
smoke in the air, catlike on a breeze.
I'd say it's oppressive like snakes
around my neck but that would be a lie
my flesh betrays with fleeting feelings
of old fingers and the quiet burn is the
same sound as ancient echoes and
silent whispers shatter the shut up
windows.

Is a happy accident predictable?
Could I prophecy that red is romance
And that we'll meet in the Tunnel-of-Love
That is part of London's skeleton?
Will the Central Line tie us up,
When happiness is accidental,
Like a red ribbon following 'destiny'?
Am I able to sit on full buses
Without a new fated friend sitting
On that one empty seat?
Dearest Who-Knows-Who
Will I trip and drown you in tea
And stain your ears with words;
Will it be the start of a beautiful
Work-but-never-social relationship?
Can I foresee the strike of chance that
Has two hands reaching for the same
Bottle of milk only to then be locked
Into a battle of politeness with my
Defeat being an exchange of dairy for
Kind ears? Or is our shared liquid desire
Made by a patient and the soon to be
Doctor in, say, seven accidents time?
Perhaps a publisher engages in this war
Of intrinsic social conduct, perhaps my poetry
Is destined for pages because of this bottle,
Perhaps I become a helping hand.
Perhaps perhaps perhaps.

Not all of this is an exercise in futility;
I look out from my window and see a city
Filled with cracked pavements or missed trains
Or shared taxis or dropped books or...or....
Or, perhaps, that ever so unpredictable,
Wonderful, accidental serendipity.

The full stops are red
Across your shoulders;
Each a curtain dropped
Like funeral shrouds
On undisclosed moments.

I did not see the play
(I never knew it was on)
But I saw the dropped drapes
And the cracks of light in between.