The cork eases out of the twisted green glass.

Bubbles erupt from the neck,
A million tiny perfect diamonds tumble over one another, kissing the air.
With a breath of Midas, it turns my crystal chalice a deep, frothing gold.

It is liquid movement indefinite and the golden
Ocean whirls and spins a delicate storm in my glass -
I blink for just too long and the fizz climbs in my ears,
Like a sweetly growling throat,
It slowly opens to an ecstatic ebbing exhalation.

Now to my parting mouth.

The chalice gently draws the heat from my swollen red lips
and it is crisp and cool as the cut glass it curls in.

Where does
            my chalice
     end and this
              pool of weightless
                                gold begin?  

Temptation changes its name to thirst.
Another and another and another down my throat.
And the storm in my chalice surges over the rim,
And the edge begins to sing to
where light and dark become
the same thing!


And now empty –
The glass is damp and cold.

One bead of vapour left,
To slide down my chalice’s neck.

And I take my glass
Back to the sink.

I’d like a man who appreciates me.
Say “Hi beautiful!” every morning,
And bring me coffee and croissants,
As we watch the new day dawning.

I’d like a man who has a high powered job.
His office window an amazing view,
His grandparents own a seaside chalet
He says he’ll take me to.

I’d like a man with an amazing body,
But he would not know that.
He’d garden with his shirt off – hanging up -
While wearing a cowboy hat.

I’d like a man who liked my friends,
And charmed them all with smiles.
And tell them how, with his arm round mine,
We dance on kitchen tiles.

I’d like a man who understood,
One does not rev his car.
He’ll take me sailing in the summer ,
No bounds to say how far.

He’s go to be able to fly as well.

Why do they always blame me?
Do they think it my fault that I was born
With silken ebony feathers
And an iron-blue beak?

Why do they always blame me?
Do they not believe it coincidence
That as my slender shadow passes over
The flowers wilt in the field below?

How typical of their race to say
That it shall be an awful day
When my wing passes o’er their way.

And is it my fault that their mothers drop dead
As I perch upon the sill?

Why do they not pity one
Who runs from family,
Has no friends,
As all their aquaintences come to their end?