Lust is the pink pillow on my bed.
Plump, filled with unwashed thoughts.
At least they’re encased in dusky pink;
pleasant to the eye especially in the
golden minutes absorbed by sheer glass.

I want your head pressing
into the pillow, hard. Then your sleepy
breath will baptise the cotton after
sinful acts. I’ll preserve the dent you make
with the lovely weight of your skull.

I’ll surround the chasm with carnations.
Eventually, they’ll be a line outside my room.
Jealous tourists wanting to take pictures.

Cured salmon glistening
between thick seeded slices.
Three plump tomatoes.
Like castle guards.

I watch in awe:
my toes poke through
knitted holes in the
blanket, fleshy moles.

Nan pushes in The
Thornbirds VHS and
she rambles about
the birds going west.

She says: ‘I’m glad
I can stay here and
not fly anywhere.’
cosy and safe.

Nan places another fleece
blanket on me. We drink
dark hot cocoa and
watch birds from the sofa

What is there to do?
Late nights and late mornings, coco pops for lunch.
Mourning Wetherspoons with friends, drinks and
3am cheesy chips, laughter like clowns on steroids.

Today I cried over my laptop dying
and I can’t use Facebook on a wide screen.
I’m pining more for real faces though
and having jokes heard and my expressions seen.

The evenings mission is dinner, lining up
the vegetables like soldiers and making
food does seems that serious now.
Outside the streetlights somehow look dimmer.

But when spring hits the watts of sun will
glow like shining daffodils and we shall
bloom too and grow using fertiliser that
forms out of the depth of solitude.

The shower curtains gets stuck to my
leg as if it knows I need to feel a
comforting touch.
The kettle steams my glasses
and gifts my eyes a rest.
At night the fan whirrs and rotates
as if scanning the rooms for threats.

Living alone isn’t as lonely
as you might think.

Two sticky Devils pit ciders
embalmed in strawberry juice.
‘Tell me why you messaged her’.
It’s not just the sun causing
those sweat beads.

Fiery fingers fly through
your book as you ignore
me. The sand creeps in
between my folds and
Irritates my skin as if

it wasn’t crawling already.
A beautiful scene mocks us.
Glittering grasses, crystal waters;
today is perfect.

If I forget that you’re next to me.

I pull up, golden hour drips through,
glazes your ornaments. Bittersweet.
The white rabbit clock,
five minutes too fast.

I trace my fingers over the curves
of your sofa, green velvet hills
like last summer at the castle in Dover,
when we realised it might be over.

I look at your art for the last time,
shapes and maths, strong and clear.
My abstract dreamscape is
Decaying in a landfill

I watch a couple outside, they howl,
shove, whip up a tornado that
tears them to shreds.
If only and how and why!

Next day, two ducks land in my
garden. They sleep in tandem and work
together chasing off a sneaky stout crow.  
Under the sycamore,

they exist in this moment,
only this one.

One. I ask my Dad what day it is, again. Two. I had a nightmare that our block of flats was exploding whilst I ran away, do you think this reflects my fear of the virus, doc? Three. Chocolate porridge at 2pm, maybe its a bit late for porridge. Four. I think I accidentally chucked my propranolol tablets into the bin. Five. I take a bike ride round the village and I get intrusive thoughts about knocking over old people, on purpose, for fun. Six. I’m back to the flat and the ceiling looks like it’s lower than usual, did I grow a few inches? Seven. I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma, must have been when she cried in Wetherspoons, someone crying with you is better than no friend. Eight. My breathing turns shallow I think, I check my symptoms. Nine. I imagine dying of it and look back at my twenty-five years like a montage and get really overwhelmed and then I start to watch an old Mickey Mouse cartoon on my laptop. Ten. I just spotted a really plump pigeon outside. Eleven. Is this how hamsters feel, trapped inside with a few things to stimulate them. If so, I’m so sorry Martin (my old hamster). Twelve. The frustration sets in like thick molasses filling in the grooves of my soft brain. Thirteen. I turn to drawing and just end up sketching a huge mouth swallowing a rat. Fourteen. It’s bedtime and I settle down with a book. American ******. Patrick just killed a dog and it set me off sobbing. Fifteen.  I close my eyes and wish for a better day tomorrow. Is it going to be Tuesday or Wednesday?

Domestic life, wouldn’t it be nice,
wine in hand, topped with ice.
Your hair shining ginger in the sun,
at the BBQ, loading sausages in buns
as our son screams and trips over. Twice!

On Thursday we lounge and eat egg-fried rice,
all we do is laugh and you say: 'This is Paradise.'
Then we shout over cake, it’s overdone!
Domestic life.

You see my tears and hug me, feels nice.
You’re still the man with the best advice.
So take me to Harvester, just for fun,
then we talk in funny voices to our sweet son.
Let’s drink more wine we bought half price.
Domestic life.

The council house figures,
did they just move?
They laugh and link arms.

I drop my carnations
As the big clock bellows.
A man that looks like my
Dad shouts:
'Hell is closer than you think!'
I wait for you at the regal
Left Lion and his expression
blesses me with subtle hope.

You walk up, head framed.
An umbrella halo.

There you are my Aphrodite.
Carefully carved caryatid,
the weight over your head

flew away.
Your lightness looks like feathers,
the tiny fluffy white ones.

We glance at each other knowingly.
Turn around. My face: angel falls.
The angel ascended.

Tune in to clouds
Between thunder static,
devastating news
white cotton noise,
you’ll find soothing hymn.

Find the station
lift your head high
enough, just for now.

Pruning in disdain,
irritation, tender pain.
The velvet flowers cause
you to tread-softly.

Her hair smelled like strawberry sun,
her skin lightly powdered like a baker’s bun,
you picture her on your luncheon plate.
Being swallowed by your slimy throat
Will never become her fate.

He grazed up my brickwork
I watched him float back to black
I hope he never comes back
Big Loud Man interrupting my
evening cereal

Prickly rock in throat,
5:20am, thin drowsy air.
I can see three cats playing.

Moist eyes recognise,
this is the calmest felt
in 27 days.