Mari Jun 29
better weather
bird blue

of the sky
is waiting

for some bright disaster,

as the dusk dissolves
this morning's doubt

Appeasement rife
today, chip-chip-chipping
away at
the really great take-away
where we return
the jars

Last night we gorged
on sauce more than enough
for the home of us,

coated ourselves all
over in red

I want to
make someone happy,
like being there

Take the lid off
and spill

red everywhere

Red because blush
blush because I want you
I get it wrong all the time
and you still make me come
back arched eager to cook
for you

Traffic lights
carry on
with no thought

for the argument
green amber read as a go

Breakfast leftovers
and the whole house smells red,
stains the corners of
the mouth that I dip my fingers into
Mari Jun 22
"The love of my life" is myself
holding a yoga mat

hot and wet myself just dripping
off my face between my breasts

Ashtanga, I've never tried yoga
but tangy, like the sound of that

like me after a hard day's work
in mind and in body

bouncy like sure you can touch
me but ultimately order is

hardly ever restored. She told me
she has shoes floor to ceiling

an aura is built from the soul
up, I reach for the salt

and I get told to ask. I see
this is a sign so I turn around

Imagine a dinner party. Imagine
the people snaking

the table. Imagine you're one
of them. Imagine you say

something funny. Funny,
not strange funny like dog

nicks flip flop leaves it flapping
up the street slight breeze

sometimes upturned as fish
fish bowl/lost souls Pink Floyd

I'm some smart guy's father
no I don't speak Italian

and mostly I'm just a little
confused about what to tell

people when they ask
where my name's from. I

hop up the street until I find
the flip flop. Marooned

and missed. But if I left you you
could show me what you're really

made of. How long would you
last out here baking

in the midnight heat?
I saw a girl wearing a t-shirt saying "the love of my life is myself", holding a yoga mat, chatting away to perhaps her mother and this happened.

Lost souls/fish bowls I lifted from Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here.

People frequently tell me I have the music taste of a dad. My father's Italian but I don't speak Italian, which sometimes disappoints people. A minor insecurity.
Mari Jun 12
I think
this mirror is
and now
I don't know
who to trust
I turn
from one side
to the next
and I know

I'm falling
out of love
without you
I no longer believe
a word
I miss
getting out
of here
smelling something
on the walls. Just
This is why
you fall
asleep before
and definitely
before the light
starts changing
and day starts
all the messy hair it has
to offer.
It all depends on the way the sun is shining I expect.
Mari May 28
We check
into a hotel room:
"Let's talk"

                     doesn't come into it
                when leaving work
           before the light does means:
      "Let's get out of here."  

                             from The Underground

         buffing my fingertips along the red brick,
              I reflect: no wonder
                   we tear our clothes.

              The door clicks:
         "Come in."

     There were guns behind the curtains
          but I saw
               a chance at

so I ran.
I suppose it's about love at all costs. Love for yourself.
Mari May 18
The people, moved, and like miniature,
looked down on from the mountains.

Empires look small from aeroplane
windows so sometimes I insist on the aisle

seat, where I can imagine
you; big and full of all the worlds

I've ever known and will ever cry for. Except
perhaps for the earth-

a journey I can't yet fathom. Still
I pursue the future. Even under a microscope

you could barely see me shake. Lust
wanders while strength strains to meet

the struggle. My knuckles
white through wishing so hotly

for you for you for you
to introduce me to the faces

of you, illuminated by the drive along
the coasts where the waves crash

and the gulls caw and houses slide towards
the blue inevitable and planes soar

right in front of our eyes. And yes, sometimes
through very high buildings of time

& money time & money time & money.

The sun was there that evening.
                                                            “As was I confessed,” the moon.
Possibly the most Aquarius thing I've ever written.
Mari May 8
as you came crumpling down the stairs with your shopping bag and
a dog bed and your t-shirt tucked into your tracksuit bottoms,
pulled halfway up one of your legs, looking homeless
having drank too much again. Oh yesterday

hurts everywhere but it's too soon
to say exactly what
the full extent of the damage is. Until
the music stops: it was you.

I spilled the gin on the laptop.

               dancing again,

my head on your knee.    Would the laptop still have


if it had have been Coke? Or just the tonic? Or
if she hadn’t have been filming.  

Soporific. Not exactly. I awake from the anaesthetic
feeling fixed in a way like I never needed it.

          The graze was always there. Since I was 13 years old, my friends

my friends laughed to a different track 2 me, chatted
on MSN * insert emoji *, watched Father Ted, German classes. Holly

watched Father Ted.

I watched the L Word. Alone, moth-like. My life
is nothing like Vancouver, LA, whatever,
and all I aspire to is finding a lover
who can swear
                           like Bette Porter.

I'm a little bit Tina: passive. Take me-

if I'm ever a mother I'll teach
my babe how
to ask for                                   the moon.

Tangerine tobacco smog sounds beautiful- I
exhale and the sky clears:

beneath, I lie, tobacco tongue tangy dragging the taste of him along
the roof of my mouth; last night,
I sang.

The reality drips down the windows, sour as a dairy. Turning I

scrape the scent                    nose down
                 I follow
                                       hundreds of ants,
I kneel before

all my gold
lined up against the wall.           Bright
graffit-ed relief.

        sweat is exactly like what it sounds and
I smell grey like chewing gum hiding under the table.
My phone flashes AND AND AND because it's
always silent. Not even tea -
or the tangerine yoghurt
sweating on the desk - can save me. You kissed no one
you love last night.
Recently written about sometime 10 years ago and before that. But it's all the same if I'm thinking about it now. Who says time is linear huh.
Mari Apr 27
Fires on the allotments this morning
means life rains


Feel like something nutritious for breakfast &
orange juice treats you well.  

here, the sky alights;
                a crowing climax of a mission accomplished.

Limestone Stomach & All The Beautiful Things
are being destroyed. History corroded,
acid attacking, this niggling

feeling. All those sugars

                              first thing.

Tax that:
    secret chemical weapons; abrasion

of teeth
      on duty.
                                                            The sting
        and the blessing
of morning.

What about if it's freshly squeezed tugged from the trees -

Tree, do you feel
a load has been lifted or
the weight of loss -

makes me feel
or at least aspirational.
Croissants are cultural,
some people are

Newspapers are shook
                                      are shook again
into something stable

          - a home -

are pissed on by dogs
all over the world.

Missiles write blind in the sky
searching for purpose. Breakfast,
                                                     a pretext for a healthy day.

                                     The dawn blazes

bed; the moaning throb of a box unchecked.

A kiss before brushed teeth-
                                                      spre­ad that on toast.

O I'd pick coffee over OJ any day of any life time.

& I'd pour chocolate
              all of
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