A life hangs painted on the wall of the world
made in brush and texture on the canvas
the hills and trees and rivers of experience
are drawn broad and large.

Bright points of detail shining in brighter colour,
memories sparkle like sunlight on water.
Standing out in jewels are snooker and cribbage and beer.
Jokes and stories are picked out like light on leaves
and mended bikes and late night lifts glow as flowers against the shadows.

No more trees or hills will find their way onto this view.
No more flowers or rivers will gleam or wind.
It is complete and we must see
though artist's brush is stilled and colours dry
the memories will remain undimmed and firm
and love will keep the picture clear.

We stand here now and mourn the artist's passing
but our heavy hearts are eased by the gleaming landscape before us.
And it is to our own pictures we must turn
and save that we keep the memories bright
and at the close we ensure our lives
may at least approach the beauty of my Father's painting.

When she turned her gaze upon me,
I was a mote of dust
caught in a beam of sunlight
I was huge and beautiful
and bright.

I laughed and danced
and shone.

And when she turned away,
a cloud moved across the sun
and I was extinguished.

When a colleague's name
could suit that of a **** star's,
smirks are on the house.

Never thought I'd have
such an addict's persona.
Never say never.

Jealousy.
I don’t like to say the word.
I dislike the shape of her.
The way she dips and curves—
she ends on a self-assured slant
as if to imply that you’ll be back for more.
 
Nothing sweet to offset her bitter bite
as her slimy saltiness rolls over your tongue.
She seeps into each and every open crevice.
To resist her is useless—
she’s designed to commandeer.
Your mouth will only produce words
soaked with her disdain. 
 
It's no secret you're at her mercy
as you watch another’s fingers
run through his hair.
If you have teeth, grit them.
If you have fists, clench them.
Narrow your gaze until  
her green vines uncoil and twist through
your arms, your legs.
A cartographer crafting
a brand new map of veins
pumping something stronger than blood.

Your misery is her victory,
and she makes no promise
to quiet her celebration.