****
a finger on glass
as two animals

in the tank
begin to dance,
sepia tong-like claws

moving every which way,
an aquatic side-step
or frenetic tango,

slimy bodies
as though mossy rocks
come to life

before settling again,
their pin-***** eyes
on your giant irises.

fully clothed

champagne waves
dripping translucent

seaweed hair
ankles drowning
sunken soles

shoelace ripples
grubby knees
buttoned shirt

salt freckles
stretching light

wet lips

After we have sweated the night away
it has come to this, myself, yourself,
a lamppost on the corner of Handler and Wilde
stained with the **** of many a dog.

Your cheeks, rivulets of black,
happy tears you said, your friends
for now and perhaps time to come, dancing,
heels like typewriter keys on the gym floor.

All Macarena-d out, panting
as though a Collie after a sprint in heat,
your found me two-thirds of a diet Coke down,
lopsided bowtie, pentagon hole in the shirt.

No kiss, but small talk. A botched triple jump
into the limo, hands linked, already spooling
back through the hours, the slow dance,
the walls dappled blue, a memory like all before.

Now the kiss. Brief. Nothing more.
This too, a memory. For a second,
marriage and children lucid theatre in my head.
The reality something else. I head home,

you wave and we're gone.

summer          light
   drinkable
through
               yellow straws
parched grass
gasping
     for         cups
of   yummy
       liquid
boys with limp
                        fringes
awkward  
stubble
     like barcodes
girls   lap   it   up
   thirsty             dogs
   in mulberry
skirts
   cusp of            eighteen
             walking
with dragonfly wings
         sunset colours come
   ooze through
gauze
darkness on     lips
   presents a          kiss

scrunch your eyes tight enough
and the scene will play
the way you wrote it

give me smoke
and your labyrinth fingerprints
on the throat of a bottle

brand me with lipstick stains
my own shimmering pools of ruby
straight from the angel's mouth

hop-skip of our words
like stained-glass window
dragonfly wings

swelling with colour
but careful! they'll break
if you squeeze them too hard

let's pretend the morning
sleeps on the horizon
a charcoal galaxy of days away

we'll go walking together
in the summer dark
and forget what we're supposed to do
with our hearts

Come quarter to ten,
sleepyhead, time for bed
with brother close by,
what awaits you up there
at the top of the stairs?

As night unfurls
each step groans
like an old gentleman,
you ask what will greet us
when we’ve scaled this mountain?

A monster, a ghoul
or nothing at all?
Something he says
different from the rest,
a sight quite like no other.

Before the clock strikes bedtime
a marvel for you two
that won't be forgotten,
the oddest thing you've ever seen;
the feast, the beast and one jelly-bean.

now it’s camaraderie down
the plughole dry pint glasses
and an unstabbed dartboard

as this Parthenon of chalk dust
played host to its last epic
clash of the amateurs

baize blessed for the final time
many-houred conflict of breakoffs
and ***** shots

a throng of fortunate bespectacled
punters quiet for the final frame
all back and forth

‘til two unknowns outside of town
shook hands proclaimed a draw
MORE the crowd cried

playtime was over but they’ll always
remember this tussle for the title
in the multi-tabled hall that sleeps

where an angry scarlet sign
on the entrance doors bellows
NO ENTRY to the memories held within

I find myself here, by choice,
the swells of heat between duvet
and body and your body,
naked except for a gold necklace
half sunken in light
from the bedside lamp.
My skin is slick and unpleasant,
my toes knock yours
in the space we can’t see.

Not the first time, not really,
but the first time here.
A different mattress, pillow,
shapes that before were yours
and yours alone
but you’ve let me in,
a secret place to many
with frosted grape walls
and your name
blaring ornamental from a shelf,
seen by only one man besides me.
You told me who.
The blistered image of you
with a stranger
in the place I’m now in
makes my throat sting
a little,
makes my muscles tense
as though about to
run the hundred metres.

You look at me,
tangled in white,
a tattoo of a flower
I don’t know on your shoulder,
moving when you move,
a grey filling
clamped in a tooth
at the back of your smile.
How strange, perhaps,
I notice this now,
I didn’t before.
I wasn’t looking.

Atop the barn
a plump flicker
on two legs,

almost rusted
but for a monochrome
wing, a reversing

arrow. As it hops
along the felt,
a glimpse of its

taupe cap,
a sort of chain mail hood,
then a piercing

chirrup, a ripple
of giggles into the air
before the flight departs.

I have spat out these words
so many times I have lost track

enough is what I tell myself
except this is not quite enough

still I stumble and search through it all
like some restless fox in the dark

but the goal one sleeve away
simple to grasp but too far gone

They all smoked in the garden
that night. Inhaling the chemicals,
the manic whirr in the lungs
of something toxic. Everybody there
wanted a piece. Their own segment
of you to cup in their hands,
taste whenever they pleased
as if you were red wine.
They wore woolly shirts
and stonewashed jeans. Bare feet.
Looking at you, a valuable gift
up for grabs. Voice like liquid gold.
Wishing you’d pick them
over the others, point a finger,
claim your prize. You had a hold
on their heartstrings and didn’t know it.
They said you were unattainable,
that you were hidden behind glass
and couldn’t be touched. Anger bubbled
between them, red kettle-hot.
Raised voices papercut the air.
I could understand.
You were glorious, untarnished.
A cleaner mind and cleaner arteries.
It was a rare and confusing thing
for them. Blonde hair, blue eyes
made their thoughts turn to flour.
You were sweet when all
they knew was acidic,
like a chunk of lemon
under the tongue.
As they squabbled in silence
we spoke. And still
they continued to smoke.

Audrey, look out the window and see your dreams.
Brydie, lay on the carpet and think of home.
Charlie, stand in the garden and let the rain wash the pain away.
Danielle, shout at the skies for this awful weather.
Ellen, smile as you see a rainbow in the distance.
Fiona, stick out your tongue to soften their fall.
Gemma, pretend there's nothing falling from the sky.
Hannah, dance in the rain in that favourite dress of yours.
Imogen, jump into puddles, one after the other.
Jade, wave to the people going past in their cars.
Keri, open your hands to cup the cold water.
Laura, laugh as the neighbour's umbrella turns inside out.
Molly, hope the grass is better for football tomorrow.
Natasha, sigh as you drive through it all.
Olivia, read a book by the nice warm fire.
Paige, sleep through the hammering of the droplets.
Queenie, scream as you dash through the storm.
Rhianne, fall back onto that squishy armchair inside.
Steph, pray for the sun to come out soon.
Tuula, watch the leaves huddle against the kerb.
Una, listen as they patter patter on the rooftop.
Victoria, take off those sodden shoes.
Whitney, snap another photograph or two.
Xandra, run to get back home to your family.
Yasmeen, follow the trail of the water on the window.
Zara, give up waiting for the rain to stop.

First of May.
That peach tree you planted
now blooms, flushes pink,
the cherry ones burst purple.
Umpteen types of daffodil
sprout up to gulp sunlight,
flower beds house seeds,
beans and peas in abundance
in your vegetable garden.
Plum batons of rhubarb
protrude, threaten
your little portion of Devon.
But the finest thing
is the girl, the daughter,
a great blossom skipping
from spring to summer,
beaming like a lighthouse
to guide both of you home.

A night sometime in mid-July
and darkness hums between the trees.
My eyes look across sodden grass
for another life to waddle past.

A creature,
a ball of bristles
appears from the bushes,
listen out for a snuffle, a mumble.

There, by the fence,
a wooden coat speckled with milk.
Its movement lazy like a man
on a summer Sunday walk home.

Does it come often? I wonder
as a breeze races over my lawn.
A sniff of a fallen branch
before shuffling along.

The evening crawls on,
a caterpillar over a leaf.
I decide to wait a while,
watch my guest awake, alive.

I. The Black Eyed Peas.

I told you a fib.
It was six years ago
so I doubt you’d remember.
Regardless, during one lunch-break
on the cusp of summer,
a matter of weeks before
we all exploded away from each other
you somehow had your legs
wrapped around my waist,
an unusual unexpected embrace.
A joke.
We were teenagers
and we mucked around more then.
Pulling me in yet
you seemed to lose magnetism;
strange - you always shone bright,
your laughter coiling round the room.
I stuttered for too long,
barely delving under the surface,
missing the sparkle, your diamond delights.
You are miles gone.

----------

II. David Guetta.

Not enough.
A corridor, a sprinkling of minutes.
My head in a whirl,
as anyone’s would be.
Like a firework, your white tendrils
splattered across my dark sky.
I couldn’t even call it trying.
I fumbled my words
as if fastening buttons
with my lesser-used hand.
Falling deeper into filthy water,
unable to hear your eyes
or see your words.
A loss.
A bout of crushing shame.
You deserved more,
not my faulty lines.
It couldn’t have worked,
it closed with a groan
not a radiant shout of ecstasy.
What are you saying?

----------

III. Example.

The grand peak of my weakness.
A clumsy rush of flower petals
smothered inside grey paper.
I burrowed further than before,
the soil dusting my fingers
but no more than that.
Swinging in my chair
for another look,
spouting brittle jokes
that melted in the heat.
I knew what I saw and I liked it.
You threw slivers of something;
I caught them, a hopeless
unknowing scarecrow.
Time sneaked away from us.
Naturally - it happens.
Your name has never left,
a crash in the air
like the blast of a trumpet.

----------

IIII. Miley Cyrus.

I repeat myself so many times
I want to cough on my fingers,
chuck it all on the side of a wall.
Every adjective worn down
to a rancid pulp on the ground.
There were moments
fizzing with optimism, the potential
for colours to rush back in,
to drizzle across my page
and slap a smile on my face.
We know what happened.
The string grew in length
and snapped,
my body jerking every which way
as if attempting some dreadful dance.
There wasn’t a sigh,
more a sound of acceptance,
the knowledge that again
I had missed the mark,
a bullet leaving the gun,
screaming the wrong way.
It is over now.

Getting back into the car
after buying
cookies from Asda,

a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it
little bundle of brown,
there I say, on the fence.

Marbles for eyes,
tail like a question mark,
hair the shade

of twenty sunsets.
I point it out,
body half-bowed

as if to whisper hello
before bounding away,
swallowed by the leaves.

Manhattan’s clockwork
ran just right,
   trains clanking into grey stations
where you’d stand incognito
among a knot of suited men,
   a sliver of white-hot California
slap-bang in the apple,
and now you were ready
   to sink your teeth deep.

Upon the roof,
a limp cigarette
   between two of your fingers,
scanning Park Avenue
as if it was your playground,
   an oven bloated with mayhem.
Your world and their world
captured in muted tones,
   the next phase of a life
simmering in your mind
before the snowstorm came
   and the sky faded to black.

what has become of this,
maybe to arrange the words before me
attach them as if a jigsaw with
no picture or meaning,
no analysis necessary
for before you know it,
they dry, start to crumble
as if made with the cheapest materials,
not to be seen again
by any pair of tired eyes,
minds wasted on what could’ve been.

And so,
as if the final
of the feline high jump,

our neighbour’s pet, piebald,
getting on in years,
sits on her side,

surveys its challenge.
Then, as if the crumpling
of ink-splodged paper,

she crouches, half
Fosbury-flops herself
up to the post, plops down

into our garden,
merrily saunters
across the rain-tickled grass.

Not knowing what they’re for,
linked questions
on an eastern future
where yourself, you’ll find
on the lip
of a fresh decade,
your tangle of metallic
teeth the answers
to somewhere.

The lady shuffles,
spindly feet across the wooden fence.

A blood red bug
flecked with dark black circles.

It’s as though a child
has painted her flimsy wings.

White marks
on her head like lights on a dark road.

Sunlight skulks up
to where she now stands.

I blink
and she chooses to whizz away.

A minute crimson blur
against the forget-me-not sky.

Beneath the sky
chalk-speckled

ink as though spilt
to bruise the night

dark scab blemish
a smoker’s abrasive cough

then muddy worms
wonky highway migraine

and forked tongue limbs
sprout from funnel of pine

when he opts for the obvious   again
this time   I think   will be the time
I finally pipe up and say what needs saying

that while I hope this fish dinner
satisfies you   the taste of the sea creature
on your lips   that salt and vinegar mixture

it ought to be me next to you   on the sofa
smiling or laughing at some ****** TV repeat
fork skewering the gone soggy chips

tips of our fingers stricken with grease
but worth it because our hands
will be a ruler’s width apart

and so   while I wrap your golden gift
slip the fiver into the till
as you puncture a Coke

I concoct my line of choice
something about fish
or how I’ll batter your wife

this
is
how
it
happens
then

the
beginning
of
a
trickle

neither
­of
you
know
it

but
this
is
the
meeting

a
word
or
a
sound

you
m­ight
not
remember

in
the
decades
to
come

but
in
this
second
an
­explosion

surprise
jumpstarts
your
heart

siren
of
beauty

oh
my­
goodness
me

the
meant
to
be

for
now
at
least

Last night
I held out my palm
to catch hailstones

to store under floorboards
where all bad things are kept
like spoiled apples,

letters paralysed by tears,
junk I bought
then jammed into toasters

so at least I could say
I put them somewhere.

It feels chillier
when nobody's about,
and the roads

and alleyways
are clogged
with silence,

the inescapable
winter blackness.

I find your name
on my window
drooling away,

a skeletal row
of faded transparent roots
and when I woke

I desperately wished
you had put it there.

I. (The Gone).
They have gone.
Why does it bother me so?
A truth,
only a handful of gems
stay bright,
all others
faded
like pencil on paper
until a faint mark remains,
what was, what now is.
Names in conversation,
a drive down the alphabet
then and now,
clotted recollections
breaking apart
each time, stalled
in silent traffic.
A few, needles I suppose,
a shot in the arm
again, again,
I cannot believe
how many times
their voices
painted everything,
but long gone,
no abrasion or impact
to consider, to revise.
On occasion,
a stretch into fog,
icy melancholies
but not always
a echo,
moments to inform
me they can return
if they wish.

II. (The Bare Feet).
So, it is night.
Whorls of cream
came through the door,
sleepyhead next to me,
ragged, tired,
out of juice.
I can only say
‘I knew you would.’
This is not your home
but we’re not far away.
Lipstick less rosy,
sound of drums
still throbs in our ears
but it was worth it,
for confetti,
flecks of gold
whirling around
you, the crowd.
Peachy lights
spray across
your face,
piano black eyes,
warm bare feet.
It is not real
but we can touch,
we can speak.
On our knees,
we look at each other,
I hold you,
the minutes
stutter past
and for a moment
only silence,
silence is all
we need for our words
are used too much.

III. (The Next.)
It took
over a year
but we saw
each other again.
Since the end
of a grey June day,
two years
elsewhere,
forty miles the difference.
He quit,
the right choice
he tells me
as we reminisce,
that’s what it is
these days,
now he looks
for the next stage
and soon
it will be me
who must fully
step into adulthood,
like a foot plunged
into a bath,
too hot, too cold.
Did we expect this?
If we could see
next year
would we smile
or scowl?
Tell ourselves
it’s just the way
things go,
on, on, on.
Now, as I look
out my window,
the faintest tinge
of orange
descending,
I know, he knows
we don’t know
what comes next.

It's a new morning
so get up out of bed
and wipe the dust
from your eyes,
let the sun filter through
the curtains, let your mind
become adjusted to where you are,
what time it is, where your handkerchief
is and what you are doing here
in this bedroom that looks
oh-so unfamiliar, unpleasant
with tissues everywhere
and a broken lampshade
dangling dangerously
from the ceiling, my God
what a dump you think
but who gives a ****,
you'll stay a bit longer
and then consider what you've done,
what you didn't do,
what you should've done
and how many missed calls you have
on your phone from friends
asking where the devil you are
because you left early
and didn't let them know,
it really bugs them when you do that,
they must've been a bit worried,
but they needn't be now
because you're in bed,
not the comfiest, not the cleanest
but in a bed with blood on the pillow
and a can of Dr. Pepper on the windowsill
in a room that looks like hell,
you feel like hell
but what the hell.

Our faces
in the dictionary
next to awkward,
me clutching a can
of some second-rate cider,
you looking round the room
for a certain someone? For someone.
I flitter over like a moth,
my eyes assaulted by every little thing,
the earrings lipstick
top skirt heels perfume,
a barrage of chemicals
that send my mind whirring
as if sloshed in a blender.
Conversation swarms with errors,
my syrupy words out of date months ago.
Then he comes with his stubble,
charming smile that appals,
and the silence flows in
like a toxic smog.

is it happening again?
am I expelling my tears, a rare, ugly act,
my head crumpling at the thought
of stepping on, then off,
my slapdash navigation through unfamiliar streets,
the hours as red as crushed cherries.

at that age I should’ve been better.
at this age, surely, better,
or not? Soon the questions will pour in,
indigo sky thunderstorm, discovery of love
jump-scaring up as through bread in the toaster,
my conversation sieved with droll ripostes,
a flame of humour, laughter clasped in your hands.

I feel a change coming,
tastes like liquorice on the tongue.
Crumbled at eighteen, but what of twenty-six?
My flaws still surface like bottles from the ocean,
rusty reminders that I still, I say, lag behind.
Will I need your hand? Do I want it?
Tell me history has not become present again.

You won’t remember this
but that time we sat
on the steps of your cousin’s place
in Brooklyn, Hewes St., one October night,
where we stayed out
and talked till three A.M.,
our fingers chapped,
our noses tinged crimson.
I remember it because
you were cold and I gave you
my jacket, the black one
I’d only just bought the day before
and you said wow, look at those goosebumps
popping up along your arms,
but sorry, I’m colder, I’m wearing this now.
We’d been to see a concert
at Madison Square Garden,
and they were all there,
Billy, Dave, Hayley,
to celebrate your birthday five days early.
They knew, you knew
every single word,
hurling them at the band
like verbal snowballs,
your hair a brunette blur,
strobe lights in our eyes.
We left with headaches
bursting open as flowers,
sweat trapped in my fringe.
Dave was into you,
did I ever mention that?
He’s been to see you
and sometimes speaks
but he finds it difficult.
We all do if I’m honest.
Anyway, we took the F
and then the J.
By 11.56 we were tired
but not quite tired enough.
I was going to walk you home
but we never left those steps.
We looked up and down the street,
said what cars we liked and why.
A Honda HRV, avocado-green
stood out to you, a hulking skeleton of metal
I said looked ugly.
You were lonely then.
Any attention was guzzled up, I could tell.
I rambled on so much
it stopped sounding English
but there was giggling, smiling,
puffs of breath whirling away from us.
You told me your only friend
was your reflection in store windows.
Surely not true.
We all said that.
Hayley told you to snap out of it
but you didn’t know how to snap out.
And when you rang on Friday morning
we all should have listened,
clutching our phones
making sense of it all.
Now you won’t remember
and there’s blood on my wrist.
that came from someone else.

I still have
the note you wrote,
kissed with your raspberry lipstick,
licked with your bedtime ink.

For years, left to dry
in a drawer, inhaling the dark,
I found it, like a stale apple,
blushing yellow.

I understand the words now,
the loops, the curves, a fairground ride,
that's what we were
before the carpet scorched our knees.

Did you keep the one
that I wrote you?
No, maybe, torn at the top
and stuffed somewhere.

I let your message breathe again,
swallow the days,
this red stain rages upon my eyes,
a note with no writer, how it all fades.

how I have loved what I have never known

these names that glisten like stars on a blanket of night

it is silly, I know, to swim in such matters

my mind a blizzard of moments splintering

in a million intricate ways impossible to explain

my heart is heavy and my throat clear of all words

and I think of your faces like a blue sky at sunrise

so unblemished so untarnished by my hapless errors

I couldn’t explain with the right expulsion of words

but know I knew how I felt

how right here in a place I am still trying to understand

you were present known and, yes, loved

Love me in twenty-seven different ways

your selection box of methods

each one as tantalisingly exciting as the next


what blue words are pouring forth

oh I have done it again doing it again

your ruby red downpour could stop this


splitting egg headache but I know

you know how to call a truce

call the whole thing off


paint my skin in whispers

that you shouldn’t be afraid to tell

and I shouldn’t be afraid to hear

and that’s exactly right

we are made of filaments and zips

old buttons blue cheese and cheap glue


all we do is try to keep each other fixed

the fragments together as if we are vases

our pretty flowers severed and useless


I am swallowed by your dialogue

cool pool of letters and jet black gags

my throat muffled again squashed dictionary flat


what then the word for love among friends

perhaps no word only the sensation

the differences that swell similarities that chime

I evoke that day in the park when
when you finally noticed my existence after months
of hoping.

Waiting. There you were, on the bench as
the snow began to fall, sipping that can of Coke
clenched in your hands.  

You looked glum; mind you, I was too.
That navy coat you wore, your ginger hair stood out like
streams of fire.

It was just me and you, you and I. My phone
rang but I ignored it, prepared to walk
towards you.

I’d say hello if I could but for some reason
(I should ask you why) you stood up, my breath
hung in anticipation.

The scrunch scrunch scrunch of
fallen snow, I looked up, there you were, falling paper
surrounding the two of us.

An invisible straitjacket
tightened around me, my voice box left on vacation
and you said…

I like when it begins   the white
icing of a dream   and the ones I only know
with my eyes closed    glow like rubies
brighter than    raspberries in July.

I like when it   unravels as a scarf
the people   clearer than cellophane  
the speech fresh as juice   here it pours  
into each eye   I like to swallow each second.

I like to wallow in    the shadows of strangers
until light   slinks under the door come morning
and I like the very spangled thought of    you
too close not close    enough to my arms.

I like the buzz of my blood   flowing quicker
when you talk   knowing your bones
disorderly network of navy veins   I like
to feel the static crackle and fizz   between us.

I like the bench   in your back garden
and us on it   I like the heady loveliness of it all  
inhale the flavours   brush your cheek
cling to the seconds ’til I wake   and you go.

We’d only seen her
a week before.
Appeared fine,
cradling her cuppa
as if a freshly-plucked apple,
a library book
chapter down
on the little wooden table.
You wouldn’t have thought it.
It was hidden,
like a forgotten photograph
slipped inside a fading album.
She laughed,
the skin wilting around
the fingers, the veins
like roots sprouting from within.
I was going to call
when the phone rang,
the shrill signal,
that ugly brick of tragedy.

I. (The Bubble).

Now, I don't like it.
The coming, the going
on four wheels
to the building
where we all drift,
told what is right
and how to write,
the same stories
in disparate voices,
A B C fail.
What is obscured behind the names,
cherubic female faces,
men from various places?
Who are you again?
We talk
but know little
about each other.
It's about you,
how to waft into
the social triangle.
We are transparent bubbles
that float and collide
and pop,
an insignificant extinction.
I do not like it.

II. (The People 'Just Like Me').

It fell into your lap
like warm spilt tea.
You took it,
the first,
of course,
but me?
Not a thing,
not a person I mean
on the other side
of the decrepit fence.
Forget, forget they say,
pick someone from that place,
figure them out
like a thousand-piece jigsaw.
But they are no good,
diluted colours
visible but not stand-out.
Where are the similar shades
of green
to paint themselves to me?
There could only be one
but forgive me,
I cannot see
for the steam in my eyes.

III. (The Resolutions).

These are the silent days
between pigs in blankets
and bangs in the sky.
Wet weather,
lights on.
The resolutions,
who keeps them?
Write better,
fair enough.
Be less inept,
but I am not anyway.
Cut down on complaining,
take each day
s t e a d y .
Breathe, move forwards,
only on occasion
delving into the sack
to pull out
unwelcome shards of the past
or vibrant memories
soon to vanish.
Are you sure you want
to delete this file?
Yes/No?

Then it slammed on your skin,
right in the kisser,
the leathery wallop
ski dd in g m a d l y t h r o u g h y o u r m o u t h .
Next came the blossoming pain,
a stinging ring
where the fist made contact
and you stagger back
in a muddled shock.

It was an accident;
I was getting into it,
thumping your left,
your right hand, fury
brewing inside me from somewhere
like a bonfire beside my heart.

I kiss you where it hurts,
the tingle of your stubble
rolls along my bottom lip.
What have I done?
Did I mean to leave
another burn on your face?
You don’t even blink,
a lingering black stare
and whisper with your eyes
what was that about then?

A chuckle skitters into the night.
Thought it was nothing
but now seems it’s something.

Let’s keep going.

It can be forgotten.

You jam the glove back over my wrist
and I’m ready again,
maybe, just a maybe,
hoping that I miss.

Legs on show down an aisle of fridges and freezers
and I am taken in by the red of your top.
A swift sight of a face, nothing much,
father nearby I presume, a brother too
but minutes later gone.
As the evening is reeled in,
I see the same flash dash into the palace
before I am certain it’s you once more.
I didn’t see you or the shorts again
but plenty of others were decked out in denim,
all aliens beneath the neon lights.

I. (The Upcoming Trio).

There are three.
Of course there is only one right now,
but still, there are three
and they are lurking nearby
like a daddy long legs in the corner of a bathroom;
the more they daintily move around,
the more the need to do something about it.
One is foreign, far away,
young and surrounded by superglue sticky air,
questions having already been posed.
Two will lure you in with lipstick
and teems of sienna hair
but is taken with a drink.
Three, my strangers, is a bit of an unknown,
beautiful with powder blue eyes,
somehow missed on the first of the week.
Older! Would never have guessed.
I ask myself if one out of this group
will join the list of failures-to-be
with their own letters
or flowers
or stories
serving up rich reminders
of amateurish errors.

II. (The Summer’s End).

Before we all enter fall
some actions must occur.
A chat with five of those stepping up
into the world of small rooms,
nights out
and a lack of coins.
A reunion with linguists
for a talk and some tea
after over a year
since food in the market.
There’s also him
before he goes off to learn to teach,
P who had results last time round,
her with guy issues,
a fan of shoes
and the one above the rest
incapable of any words.
Good times ahead
with friends I hold dear
that ought to take place
before we all enter fall.

III. (The Procrastinator).

A ******, a waste
and a bag of mice on the floor.
Newspapers
under every little helps.
Really must be done
now,
now,
but no,
later,
tomorrow,
weekend,
why?
You haven’t gone back yet
to the days of park crossing.
Sort it out mate,
clear some space.
No more than an hour, tops.
How do you expect
to get anything done
if you don’t get up from the chair
and begin to move?

Every time a resuscitation;
what you have given me, always as if new,
the gift of a pulse to trigger mine,

your touch a rare, true thing,
exquisite among the dust
of a thousand expired days,

like a flame that scolds the frost,
your kiss the echo
in my creaking crucible.

If this is to be the rest of it
then your fingers
must be against my skin

like I am a delicate instrument
you are handling as though
it is an unexpected present,

but you already know
the correct notes, in the right order,
how to awaken me.

Imagine, if you will,
an empty stretch
of carroty sand
and me and you
skedaddling up
to the waves as they unfurl out to us,
slide back in
like a dog’s tongue in heat
or two lovers’ lips
to say hello, farewell,
then hello again.

Imagine, if you will,
the two of us
on the beach
as the sun
dribbles down
like raindrops on a window,
afternoon into night
and our toes meshed together,
and our hands pressed together,
and our bodies together,
so close I can count
every time
your heart pounds,
beats with ecstasy.

Imagine, if you will,
what this is like
in a dream,
what it would be like
if you blinked
     and the scene
became real,
if you turned your head
and knew my eyes,
if I turned my head
and couldn’t take my eyes
away.

On the ceiling
or creeping out from behind
the radiator,

six brittle legs,
a body round as a
black Jelly Tot

or a miniature cylinder,
just enough to make you          jump
or eject

a shriek from your mouth,
this one double-clawed
creature you scoop up

with a cup, delicately
in case of a sudden scuttle, pop
back outside among the marigolds.

summery strum

jangly notes bounce
through air

smooth cold lick
strawberry ice-cream
dripping

pale curves
where a bikini lived

your legs shimmer
bronzed sunset

wind warbles
blonde hair
a reckless shiver

sun hits skin
with a blizzard of kisses

touch me

you taste of something
succulent

something you shouldn’t have
all in one go

magnetic electric physical

consonants fluid
like warm water

hands a slippery murmur
around your waist

an us
not an I

we are rapid fire
a hot knot
of carbon and calcium

our lips
mouths
moment

present

one

There is nothing I know
                       about you
and yet like a peach
I want to perforate your skin,
                taste
something delicious,
find   out   what I can,
open
      your
             grotesque
                            novel,
discover all the        flaws
I can later ignore,
a sea can come
                 to **** them up,
                 leave your gems
on the shore.

I'd like your name to be sugar
                                    on my lips,
                         sink
my fingers in the     gaps
between your           fingers,
be suffocated by you,
       be drunk on you
     in the best possible way
and still be left
rasping
gasping for more.

A day
will arrive
when your wavecrashesintomine,
no clock needed,
no forward
                  slashing days with a pen,
it will happen
    and I’ll be here
sitting
on our beach    with a book
ready to fall,
fall to the edge
of wonderful madness.

What mystery magician presents
such liquid night? The town asleep,
cerulean bathed. Colour confluence
to make hieroglyph of sky, white
whirligigs with buttery pulses,
spirits in hurried conversation swim
through reeds of cobalt, past tall
cypress flame, black cloaked nuisance. This
and banana moon, cocked grin
awake but silent as dreams of people
drift like sapphire ribbons.

LGW to SYD,
flight through time,
a while to while

away the hours.
As evening begins
its inky descent

to sleep, furry
green batons
trigger electric frazzles,

icicle-blue horns
exhaling light.
All we are

singular, miniature
among a crew of upturned
magenta roots.

you’re telling me something
yes

     I know

this is a game you play
and I’m caught up

a scrap
    
     of debris

in your Kansas storm


each move we make
is dangerously
exciting

or the other
way around

or not exciting

     at all

words like cracking eggs

enough for weeks


your story changes
every time

truth

lost in the wind

ghosts don’t scare me

     real people do


if I’ve gone quite mad
you’ve fixed me this way

are holding hands.
I think
they think they are
in love,
in the eye
of a glorious storm,
with aisles of x’s
in text messages,
a wink that suggests
anywhere but here
is better.

The babies of
this century,
maked-up more
than the generation before,
flecks of snow
in a blizzard
of pimples and kisses,
condoms and phones.
There is no jealousy,
just a shift in the times,
a jolt in the system
of snotty noses and whispers.

They look happy, at least.
Love, or something like it,
a blossom in their lungs.
Now, I wonder,
walking,
if they know what comes.