after the rain
tide out
  the sea
   a sliver of mauve silk
    in the distance
     sand pockmarked
    with footprints
   like paintbrush stipples
  a mishmash of patterns
naked to the sky
all pastel hues blended
with a slippery finger
  ultramarine
   into a violet yawn
    into a lavender blush
     into an apricot kiss
    the mellow slosh of water
   chatter
  sun setting
as a pinkish glimmer
slithers over the beach

of soil and water

of dirt and cries of sky

musty aroma

packing the nostrils

translucent blobs

stutter on glass

disintegrate against ground

wave of pewter puffs

and that echo again

like a million falling *****

in an vacant room

where the bonfire began.
Where your golden syllables were sewn
onto the tapestry of a city.
I can imagine the swirl of your dress,
the feverish squawk of jazz
rebounding from the ceiling.
Few alive who’d remember.
Few witnesses who saw
you gnaw on his cheek, draw blood.

Sixty-one years later.
The hubbub of tourists,
a swell of shop windows.
They do not think of you, but I do.
I think of Ross, Myers, Huws,
the Weissborts and Minton,
and you two, the first lightning-white boom
that triggered a lust, a love,
a marriage.

What verses will form next?
I hope for platinum language,
dialogue free from bloated pauses.
If only a while, I’ll hold it somewhere
in the walls of my mind for life.

I simply cannot focus on my work
as all these animals have gone berserk!
Philippa, my darling girl, fill me in,
who on earth is making that awful din?

There’s an aardvark having a bath,
   and a chameleon rolling dice,
an eagle searching in the freezer
   and a goose hiding in the hedge,
an iguana eating our jam
   and a koala juggling our lemons,
a marmoset slurping noodles
   and an octopus carrying paint pots,
a quail wearing a ring
   and a squirrel making the tea,
a unicorn using the vacuum cleaner
   and a walrus playing the xylophone,

and finally Philippa, finally my girl,
   a yak fidgeting with a zip!

Where did they come from? I really don’t know,
but very soon they will just have to go!
I’ve had enough now of this awful din,
thank you Philippa for filling me in!

You don’t choose to go into bookshops anymore,
you don’t read much,
you hear about calories and five-a-day but you don’t stick to it,
you say you’ll exercise but you never seem to do any,
you notice a blossoming paunch but choose to keep it,
you lose friends and rarely gain any,
you don’t make much of an effort and rarely care,
you don’t sleep as much as you should,
you don’t like the job you’re in,
you don’t know what job you should be doing,
you only work for the money,
you don’t have enough money,
you buy things you don’t need,
you don’t talk to your parents enough,
you don’t talk enough,
you spend too much time on your phone,
you care more about technology than your friends,
you don’t look where you’re walking,
you moan about the youth of today,
you aren’t as mature as you could be,
you still live at home in your thirties,
you see your friends getting married and having kids,
you watch too much *******,
you haven’t travelled as much as you’d like,
you are quick to body-shame,
you don’t understand what LGBTQ+ means,
you can’t tell the difference between Conservative and Labour,
you wear the same clothes day in day out,
you are not the best driver,
you have social media pages but aren’t sociable,
you sigh when girls you like get into relationships,
you know you never stood much of a chance,
you have too many fillings,
you don’t celebrate birthdays much,
you are getting lazier all the time,
you haven’t had a long conversation in ages,
you hate your neighbours,
you don’t know your neighbours,
you get angry playing video games,
you order takeaway food rather than cook,
you say this is my year when you know it won’t be,
you haven’t told anybody this,
you haven’t even told yourself,
you are not sure you need to.

I suppose what I mean to ask is
when will you get it,
when will the cartoon lightbulb
twitch its gift above your heads

so I can pour the little of me
into the many hands you possess
for approval, the scoring
of boxes that do it all for you,

and is it all worth it, I suppose
I should ask. Will you discard
like a bare crisp packet,
tasted and wasted, replaced

by a glossier prospect, the glass
of champagne pricked with bubbles,
and they can pour themselves to you
in a more delicious, refreshing way.

Some women will scribble your name in schoolbooks
but never spit it out loud.
Some women float away like dandelions.
Some women bubble so much they spill
over the side of your cup of coffee.
Some women will leave a minty taste
under your tongue.
Some women say they hate you but they don’t.
Some women are constructed out of paper.
Some women copy others to make themselves feel good.
Some women are as a juicy as a pineapple
everybody wants the very next drop.
Some women will call you and say wrong number sorry.
Some women win without as much as a line of sweat
on their skulls.
Some women carry names inside their jean pockets.
Some women want diamonds.
Some women loathe other women but never explain why.
Some women will tear you open like it’s Christmas.
Some women live as if on the edge of a cliff.
Some women want thin.
Some women like big.
Some women won’t care if you don’t party hard.
Some women dance so well you will fall
underneath the flashing disco lights.
Some women have you as their favourite headache.
Some women teach better than any professor.
Some women hate the size of their *******.
Some women swipe husbands and keep a tally
below the floorboards where no-one has to know.
Some women have been singed
you could set them alight.
Some women won’t do what you want them to.
Some women count stars until they lose count.
Some women click their heels and make a wish or ten.
Some women can see their futures glistening
in the corners of their eyes.
Some women **** men with their lipstick.
Some women know with just one look.
Some women squeal as though
a toaster has been tossed in the bathtub.
Some women want three words three syllables
to swirl manically through their veins.
Some women would prefer it if you split the bill.
Some women choose click-flicks over ***.
Some women cheat when playing Monopoly.
Some women are left-handed and until
they write the wedding invitations you won’t even know.
Some women are fake outside but real inside.
Some women judge books by their covers.
Some women bleed red if they’re feeling blue.
Some women prefer Pepsi over Coke.
Some women drive wildly because they can.
Some women turn bad when they get drunk
they won’t remember but you’ll never forget.
Some women dread the moment
anyone sees them with no clothes on.
Some women are like morphine.
Some women will watch you crawl away and laugh
the sound smacking your eardrum again and again.
Some women will treat you like their next cigarette.
Some women will offer you their Vimto hearts
beg you to keep them beating.

breeze in hair
   cool whispers

   sand on hands
slinks between fingers

old band shirt
   silver bangle

   cobalt nails
watermelon eyes

footprint hieroglyphs
   sleepy pulse

   pineapple sunset
ribbon clouds

winter beach
   fresh love

   just a touch
sea-hush

Autumn’s still yawning.
Sunlight seeps between
a few trees and leaves pools
of yellow drool.

A crow nearby looks up,
a black speck
climbs the steps
but then, as a bullet, it’s gone.

Moss, like acne
tiptoeing up the track
around my feet
stains the ground green.

A broken-bone crack,
a twig split in two
joins other brunette arms and legs
strewn everywhere.

Clouds begin to blush
silver above my head.
I hope I get home
before they start to weep.

Tell me who you are

Oh I am hoping
to grab your voice

and keep it
alongside mine

so we can talk
     look how we can talk

it's not pretty
but maybe

this is how
it can be fixed

fixed enough
for everything

is just a bit
broken sometimes

…Run with the first line
then decide the form,
short line
or longer and whether punctuation
will be prominent throughout.

- By this point include a colour
but not basic red or blue,
something more visual
like RASPBERRY or… BLUEBERRY;
a part of the body is a fine

idea too, so mention …  runway …
of stubble, then a line or three
about weather, how raindrops
play skinny melodies
on the windows or sunlight

flirts - between - the curtains
as you sleep (mention another
person here, you are not
that interesting). Bring in
an unclear observation;

feet of treacle
make hurdling a challenge,
mist will only sting
if static for too long.
- Bring the piece

to a conclusion now.
Make trifling edits if necessary.
Only you can stamp
the page, declare this waffle final.
Name the poem.

Hadn’t changed numbers.
A voice bristled in my ear,
said why not then, it’s been years.
Months passed.
An amalgam of frail strained hearts,
smells on pillows we tried to lose.
Chose the boulevard in the end,
gaudy nostalgia blazing
like a forest fire in my eyes.
I waited.
Ran a finger over rails
those skaters we knew marked,
back when something called lust
fizzled between you them and me,
through the airwaves;
the lyrics can still trickle
on my tongue if you ask nicely.
Peroxide-blondes, men with muscles
the size of marrows,
a summer pick ‘n’ mix
lacking in looks, in fine taste.
Went to read a book in the sea
for a while,
slurped up half a pint in chapters
then lost the plot again.
That’s when you came
in polka dots,
a pack of colourful taffy
swinging idly from a wrist,
peanut-butter cups
like lily-pads on your palm.
As if you’d never left,
same number, name, face.
Forgot what goodbye was,
tripped over a lost hello.

Ponte Sant’Angelo,
my thumb brushes
her crimson emblem.

Images slosh in my head of her
cycling, channelling
her inner Hepburn,

sleep and poetry on the steps,
talcum swirl of a *** and raisin gelato,
tiddlywinking a Euro into the Trevi.

This is stop four
on her grand tour,
gap year girl

glugging the lingo. I touch again
her Ciao in curly black,
her **, her airmailed red peck.

wish you could extract the words right out my throat

not the clusters of dust I often proffer

but little glittering jewels every time


I don't know how I'm supposed to run

is this body a clock

is this mind a million-piece puzzle


told to do it alone

but still submerged in a lake

chilled under a cracked translucent shell


so pop me back into my sockets

drizzle me in sentences

as if private rainfall on a summer night

A throng of poppies
like a lolling maroon tongue
that slumps into water
hundreds of crushes
split the scene
sunlight licks through trees
with a warm caress

autumn foliage comes to play
a swell of golden shapes
dangle from spindly arms
dance over the river
shimmering cerulean
as molten steel
on a late October morning

After my round, Karen
leaves early. The revision
won’t do itself, she says,
and we know she’s an
all-night crammer, we’ve seen
the textbooks thick as a brick
so we groan but know
needs must. Our tongues, fuzzy
from lurid orange *****,
heads starting to pound
but we all, those left, agree it’s time
for vinegar-blotted batter,
salted sliver, steaming grease
in a puddle of papers. They’re open
till late, I say, the only one
yet to stagger as our one minute
walk begins, laughter lost
to the night. Tom asks why
haven’t we done this before. Beats
me, we just forget about time
don’t we, it’s like there’s not
enough of it. He half-drunkenly nods,
the blinding glow of the chippy
reeling us in, thirsty for money.

melt into it
   pool of unconscious
panoply of colour
   premiere of unscripted
snippets of before
   possible after
here where names glow
   skittish fireflies
book of repetitions
    mislaid by morning
scenes that crumble
   as neglected birthday cake
into the next
   marvel of the night

I’ve displayed twenty different colours
                                                        to you

set myself aflame
or dunked myself in cold water

no not you
who makes the selection

myself making the choice
as though a t-shirt in the wardrobe

what you get
either side of a coin

take my apologies
in advance

never one
but often the other

It’s probably best

to keep matters simple

and say that I love summer

because you are it

the tall cool glass of lemonade

sunflower with its happy lemon petals

We are waiting
at the foot of the stairs.
All afternoon
you have been hidden from sight
as women fidget with your hair,
paint your face with the latest brands
to make you more beautiful
than you already are
but say you are not.

The boy you have chosen
for tonight, this season, this life,
fiddles with his wrist,
impatient as the clock scuttles
towards seven, when you’ll
and he’ll be free.
The evening unfilled,
but no doubt dancing
will be involved, a kiss
under the lights.
What you could be doing
may keep me up half the night.

I shall not judge him.
I know his folks
and they’re good people.
I think over dinner once you said
he was on the basketball team.
A Bulls fan if I recall.
We don’t speak much.
He is merely doing what I once did,
eyes on the time,
suit and tie and the shimmer
of gel scraped through the hair.

When you arrive
the obligatory pictures are taken.
A smile, wide, a drizzle
of jewellery, a cyan dress.
He’s beaming, and why wouldn’t he.
Goodbyes charged with meaning
flicker in the room like lazy moths.

It’s seven when you depart
and on the sofa in the front room
I know this is the beginning
of the end, when you’ll say to me
you are no longer a kid
but of course, we both know,
you haven’t been for a long time.

Oh old sport,
it crumbles around me.
The lights have dimmed
to a feeble moan,
my reveries like shirts
idly blowing in the air,
head heavy as morphine.

I feel my heart throb
like a defective clock
as cool fall rain slithers
down the windows.
Every set of eyes
has turned away;
now sad spheres
that gaze elsewhere.

Her voice was my wild tonic,
her figure an enchanting breeze.
We’d unravel as hanks of wool,
kisses that would leave
a tingle on our lips.
There are no pills for what is now.
Past moments entombed
behind frosted glass.
Agitations that turn me
into a sugar-rushed flea.  

Look now Jay.
The water an awful, inky blue,
the pool a somnolent cavity.
I wish to fix it,
to slot the pieces into place,
the seconds flitting by
as if ash in the wind.
A pinprick of green
glimmers in the distance.

Old sport,
I swear I hear my bones cry.

I.

The childhood lie
of a rotund Santa Claus
who delivers gifts

--------------------
II.

Smells from the kitchen
potpourri of vegetables
steam glued to windows

--------------------
III.

Muddle of colours
wrapping paper ripped open
revealing presents

We walked back to hers the other night
from the bar, not drunk, not at all,
laughing a lot though, so easy
to make each other smile.
She leapt in all the puddles,
maize coloured swirls in the ***** water,
full of vigour, lips a kiss-me red
and she did this until we got to her door.
Made two herbal teas, stuck on a Fighters song,
mouthed the words into a pretend microphone,
thrashed her Irish orange hair in time
with the guitars, pretty beat by the final strum.
Flopped onto the sofa, hint of mint on her breath
as she cuddled up closer to my grey cardigan,
a furious fire before my eyes
at 10pm but the flames don’t seem to burn.

The morning after I killed him
we sat eating breakfast
at the kitchen counter.

The father, pupils
on the tabloid
which would later

leak with the news
of his youngest child's
departure.

The mother, upstairs,
applying the swish
of crimson,

a shade she'll
rename blood of son
before too long.

I won't go into specifics.
But it was simple, really.
The fingers first,

flaccid, then the arms
like sticks of broken chalk,
then the slump,

static, as if a switch
from on to off,
or a plug wrenched out.

Everything was normal.
You did not suspect.
I posted you

his glasses a week after,
wrote the note left-handed.
And yet

you did not suspect
but walked numbly,
shaking hands,

even the hand
of the man
who severed his breaths.

wash me clean
of all the things I am not familiar with
not familiar enough with
I’ll fling them out like pebbles
to scorch the horizon
corrode away

feel fresh accents
question marks
spill against my legs
like dandelion seeds

old letters will unfurl
underwater
dissolve as stars

these are naked lips
bare hands
when I press them together
you hear tears
plopping onto my skin

the sea is my flesh
I mould my memories
out of salt and clay

leave them in places
we keep a secret

I hold the chill
of your language
as a cluster of pearls

Imagine blue as building
the first snowman of the year,

red as the toasted marshmallow
above the fire,

then pink as a child
roly-polying on the grass.

Can you see green
as the smell of a new paperback

and orange as your toes
over the sea-licked sand?

What about yellow
like a hug on a December morning,

black as the rain
as it pelts the windows,

with white the sun
creeping in through the curtains?

But what about purple?
It is round? Is it loud?

Give it a nudge, note the sound,
let the taste cool in your throat.

in our veins
the warm slither
of familiarity

spilling spider-like anxieties
serving molten stories

written
on multi-coloured balloons

we inhale the air
like it’s precious

and it is

each mouthful
a moment
a reminder
of what is now

This is no box of tricks
rather an ottoman swollen
with some daft curios

that you know little about
and I can’t control
like the tide leaking in

Here’s a sack
of silly cravings
boiling over

as a *** of hot coffee
feel the discomfiture
bloom inside my cheeks

Dreams glazed
in electric colour
hooked on fiction

every night
wishing for the lights
to blaze upon whoever you are

Today, no yesterday
you purchased a raincoat
to drench you in grey,
way too expensive
but worth it, about right
if you hand over enough.

They will see you ride,
maiden on a bike
through the torrent in your new
good-on-the-eyes garment,
with just the slightest hint
of merry pink lining.

I am torn

between cookies and cream

or raisin and ***

   you have plumped
   for a vivid blue creation

it’s bubblegum
   you say

as it begins to
drip

   down your fingers

and I’m dawdling

so it’s raisin and *** then

two magnolia spheres
   glittering in the sun

and we walk down the street

with cold tongues

snowfall and stars
you shove gloved hands
into pockets
to warm them faster

the shimmer of ice
splintered by a slew
of children
and now us

touching you
my private ghost
body like smoke
thrill of a dangerous taste

what night
crawls into our heads
drips its silence
between the wind

what names
trickle into our throats
form like frost
on unfamiliar windows

In the most random of places.
Like the sandwich section
at Tesco, on your lunch break,

mobile shuddering in your pocket,
agitated by attention. Then,
at the self-service, an image forms,

a memory, dust-heavy and wonky
from lack of recall. Why was it
the dialogue between you

became a drought? The thought
like a blood test. A little pinch, then
the gentle withdrawal.

begins

new jewel

almost a year

since you made it official

and now back

to the start

another year

stretching its arms

April wave

green blaze

love like the blossom

if no answers, the sea calls.
watch how it rushes in to greet,
its translucent syntax spilling
over the toes, splashing the ankles,
leaving its transitory glisten for you.

a tepid breeze between fingers,
count each intake of breath,
every time the waves respire
and become reborn, and you sigh
along with them, coastal air

loading your lungs, the blood orange
sun on its indolent slide
to the horizon’s other side,
your language of logograms
the response, to keep going.

I don’t suppose
you remember
that day one December
when I scored a hat-trick
in the mouthwash-smeared hall
and thought I was Messi
for a couple of seconds

or when we went to the Tate
in about year eight
for a rare school-trip
with a gang of teachers
and we gawped at the art
like the cat next door
stalking a bird

or when my Dad said
that my uncle had expired
and I was on stage one night
with Joe’s coat of many colours
and wet veins on my face
for some reason
I didn’t get

Head sunken in a black puddle,
give me a sponge
with no holes
to scrub away marks
of irritation.
Drinking disease,
blood is a slush
like crushed ice in my veins
through dreary afternoons.
A headache burns
but how the flames must spasm
in the wind
and wax drip
as a tap not turned off right
to stir incoherent words along.
Are ears filled with filth,
eyes coated in a watery false film?
Dust the old ones from your shoulder,
move past the smog
to the probable.

A chalky body
tainted with sticky ruby,
acne-riddled, dark spots.
Digits
spill out
over your tongue
onto the red floor.
Clatter,
now spin.
Watch through your dried blood fringe
as it revolves,
let the good times roll,
isn’t that what you say?
Now this is out of your hands,
out of your mouth,
blurred blackness,
your choice down to chance.
A low rotating sound
and it lands
next to crimson painted nails.
Your number is up.

dipped your locks
     in a *** of gold,

beautiful as a haiku,
                                 cryptic as a silent night.

I’m the clock with
a faulty second-hand,

my days made
          with rings of mist.

          now,

I picture your voice,
          hear your skin,

names pile up
                       like a tower of cards

                       but the hearts aren’t real,
they never have been.

     sing all the colours
     the rainbow forgot.

I dip in my pen,

          write the words

                                      you’ll never see.

You make it all go red,
bottled wine crimson.

Pictures pop like plump bubbles,
sleep clogged
with soggy might-have-beens.

I bounce my words
along a washing line
in the hope they’ll find you
looking out
at a cement-made sky,
windows lashed
with crinkled blobs of rain.

Pause. A thought.
Skinny ***** of light
javelins across your face.

A sentence built
with strawberries,
not a comma
like an ugly smudge of blood.

Met you in the red room.
Met you in the place
where we shattered our youth.
   I came as soon as I could
in the car, beer on my teeth
and my heart thumping mad.
You had called me up.
Dropped my phone in shock,
maybe laughed in surprise.
   Sixty miles - sixty minutes.
***** the traffic lights,
***** the state of my face,
my bloodshot eyes
yawning open with each blink.
   Inside, into our crimson heaven,
curtains drawn,
glass of milk in your hand.
The room of our eighteens
where we killed crushes,
lost bets and went home
no nearer to being adults.
   You’d put on that black shirt
I’d left one time before.
I’d forgotten all about it.
Yours now. Always yours.
   It was raining.
You gave me a towel,
I breathed in your smell.
No need for words,
I knew what you were saying.
   Took a step closer.
Both of us ready to shatter
whatever this was now.

tell me what it is you want,
the bits that make you tick
when the doors shush shut,

the want that scurries within
like some electrical current
making your skin tickle.

tell me what you feel
when he doesn’t ring back
and the phone sleeps,

an inept white brick.
tell me. go on, your head
a knot of faulty Christmas lights

and how you wish for someone
to grab your heart (not literally)
and make a home there

or just renovate it.

The man rides by,
gas mask on mouth,
another man at the back
in the air-quiver heat.

Debris sprinkled
like an upturned board game,
unreadable dominoes,
Jenga bricks,

skeletal wires
that wriggle from
used-to-be floors,
a building pinched in

at the waist or flattened
by the palm
of a foreign hand,
now a crinkled newspaper migraine.

Three time zones away,
the crackle-static from the radiator,
low drone from the TV
as they frantically jiggle

their pamphlets
at a river of horses
that chug past in person,
on a screen.

Mobiles are hooked
out from pockets,
a choir of beers
hoisted and sloshed

between pancake-hat girls.
They have their own world,
as does the child
leaving school,

the bartender wiping a pint glass,
the single mother
driving out the multi-storey.
The news makes

a big deal
but all I can think
is we’re the same and so different,
so different yet the same.

morning donation
like blobs of memory

remnants of night’s mischief
sets green ablaze

with transparent poetry
transient grammar

I want to be the image
on a loop in your mind
a technicolor exclusive

the word that camomile
soothes your throat

teardrops of light
that speckle the walls
in dawn dreams

the little flame that melts
your frozen fist
of a heart

there'll be a ball of socks
hugging at the end of the bed

and you'll teach me phrases
my throat has never
truly felt before

the tales of our todays
   splash into     tomorrow
my veins appear     bluer
     my joints creak louder
as if anxious for attention

hours pass while in some strange
     autopilot   stupor
paddling     among     memories
that bleed monochrome
   feel like sand   slipping
painlessly     from my ears

bright   names have grown   grubby
as years dribble     away
   from my hands

it must be universal

what’s the   medical   name
for over-reminiscing
   coupled with   too   much     thinking

sad hellos   float   in the wind
   goodbyes punch harder
     and occur too often

our misery clings to the windows
   like April   raindrops
     the language of young     manhood
smudged together in the mist
   incoherent     grey clouds
we remember   this but     not that

my spine   aches
I     misplace things
and next   week and next   month
     stumble into view
blurry as a frozen drink
   dangerous to     touch

I wait
outside the classroom
just before one.
The sun

shines down on this
Thursday afternoon.
Minute to go.
The bus will turn

the corner
and arrive. You’ll be the third
to step off.
I’ll see brown bag,

brown hair,
glasses from afar. A smile
will slowly appear
on my face

just like that.
Waiting.
Others are in class. Hurry up
please, return, it’s been too long.

Far too long.
I expect I’ll sit, swing
on my chair to look at you,
as always.

As always, I wait.
The bus pulls up,
you step off, wander towards me.
There’s that smile.

There you are.
Here we go again.
I say hello.
You say hi.

Down to this,
exposure that we, or just I,
never saw coming, for this did not exist

when I acted, chaotic and clueless
so long ago the memory
has puddle-warped around the edges.

Who for? To titillate the roving pupils
of a stranger, to express for a transitory
thrill, the static image your donation.

Now the ache in the stomach, latent
for years, spreads again, dull and stubborn,
my silly heart bruised in a way

these words cannot explain.

and they are ready to pull,
   a crew of pinkish wands
sprouting from the ground,

clouds of green
   flecked with mulberry veins,
the soil quite soggy

from last night’s rain,
   grass tickled silver,
pewter-rippled sky.

I grab the first,
   press down, listen
to the burst of a crackle

like the spine of a book,
   tug it out
as if a tooth.

When I carry them
   to the kitchen I think
of the crumble to come,

the smell, the spoon
   diving in, exhuming a pool
of amethysts beneath.

pastel puffs
cloud dust like green fish ghost
somnolent in water

under violet bruise
twinkle-stippled
mirror to elsewhere

where brown murmurs
unearthly exhalations
and crimson dagger

punctuate unimaginable space
****** drip glow
as stars take their first blinks

every word
you throw into the light
like a thunderclap

I get pins and needles
from where you grab
my wrist

electric taste in my mouth

so wind us up
like toy cars

and watch us scurry
delirious
as wild animals

in a hurry for something

to get out
from our self-made mess

to breathe free
from the labyrinth
made of ***** mirrors

let’s melt the icicles
use our words like fire

the roar of our stories
warm flicker of your voice

I wanna whirl
in the moment

swallow the blur

keep spinning

absorbing noise
and colour

our noise and colour

write a diary
in purple ink

bits of string
a coffee-wet finger

and still keep spinning
away from the maze

with you
and each second
that follows