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Kirsty Jul 2017
My old-time heartache
lives in
long-ago train stations
lives in
the rafters; fluttering
like an injured dove.

Isn't it kinder to just break
its neck.
Kirsty Oct 2016
oh, you are the seasons;
shifting beauty
in a single
you are a heartbeat
whose rhythm holds
the north sea
in pulsing hands.
you move in clock ticks and
wave crash,
and everything else.
let me move through your in-betweens.

oh, you contain star fields
my love,
with such delicate
bury me in your
baby glow and
trembling voice
while we kiss to
the midnight saxophone song -
I hear no music
only muffled silence
on record players.
we are old movies with no words.

and oh, you are the leaves
of autumn, dear.
so breathtaking yet
let me make my bed
in your arms
full of flowers and little birds
or the old books
you've never read.
we will make love until
heaven fizzles out;
beginning again every day
in seasons.
For my love
Kirsty Jan 2016
If I take a
in the seas
of your
whatever will happen
if I

will I tumble head
to a watery demise
in a submerged smoke
of oceanic ink

or what happens if I
s e e p
through the cracks in our
flaws - sorry
will my reckless f
be cut

or will I
&        sink
&        sink
some more;

drifting through sub-marine thought?
Kirsty Sep 2015
Why are we so quiet?
I will tattoo that question onto the tip of my tongue in the hope that it will smudge onto yours.
Why  -  are we  -  so quiet    ?

he tells me in a 3am bus stop
"Loud ain't sittin' right in my ribs."

He's got this idea in his head that god can't save his soul
that god is just a concept
that god can only be found in the crease of a bible spine but


It's like when you lean on a piece of wet newspaper and the text imprints on your skin except,
there are no words -
just memories
and they are inked on the inside of my veins like

remember the other week when you were sleeping in my bed and the sun peeked through my curtains and made your eyes flutter?

That's the front page headline.
That's why I believe in absolute perfection
that's how I know beauty isn't just a concept
because I found god in the crease of your spine that morning.

I want every Sunday to feel that holy.

You are a cathedral pointing your spire to the sky saying
and my eyes search for
How can I align the stars when I have drawn more beautiful alignments
between the freckles on your skin

I kept telling you to be quiet until I pulled up your shirt and read the first page of your ribs:

Kirsty Jun 2015
I can feel the weeds poking
through the mulch in my stomach.
stop plucking them out-
they just grow back louder.
yknow, for a gardener,
you spent a lot of time
in mortuaries.
I just didn't realise I had one
in my chest                                  
I didnt realise you'd notice        
didnt realise you'd try to pull
the weeds out of that too,
and plant daisies in the beds
Did you know daisies are weeds?
yknow, for a gardener,
you were never very good.
But I still let you into my house
to water my arteries.
every single time we kissed
I left with a mouth full of flowers;
you left with a mouth full of mud.
It's not your fault you couldn't
keep up with the gardening.
you tried everything to get rid
of those *******.
Didn't your mother ever tell you
not to kiss a girl who tastes like
They tell me you gave up gardening -
But I know you still keep a daisy
pressed in your bible.
6am sleepless night poetry and you're on the tip of my tongue.
Kirsty May 2015
You are so summer.
You are baskets of wild flowers
and dew drops on grass leaves.
The scent of peppermint carried steady
on a soft wind -             that's  you.
Stranded in the palm of your hand:
a glass shipwreck -  I am stuck
like tired eyes on candleflames.
You are so late nights; early mornings,
pastel shades of rising skies.
Paint me lilacs and baby blues.
Picture me in the pink of spring
under satin dresses; silk songbirds
singing breezes, sewing seeds.
Wrap me up in cold arms while
I wrap you in the warmth of dusk.
You make the sunset blush
every time you step out of your car.
I watch you wipe the dust off the horizon
in a single brushstroke,
I am in love with  the view.
My veins are filled with sunshine
that spills from the stereo.

You can't take me home
if I make a bed in your fingerprints.
Kirsty Mar 2015
A child, she sits at the piano,
exploring with modest fingers,
the anxious keys.
One day she'll play in church
but for now she'll play in the sea
and stick her tongue out in the rain.

A child watches the modest rain
kiss the window beside her piano.
An anxious sea
stirs in her fingers.
She falls asleep in church
and plays in the wrong key.

"Practice makes perfect, precision is key."
A child walks home in the rain,
and passes the church.
Her teacher has an old piano
that leaves dust on her fingers.
She washes them in the sea.

A girl is drowning in the sea
bare; like a single ivory key
He plays her with his fingers.
She loves him like the rain.
Her mother sold her piano,
when she stopped singing in church.

"I feel like an empty church;
a haunted sea;
a dusty piano
with no keys."
she says softly, to the rain
when he lets go of her fingers.

Reaching out these fingers
in an abandoned church,
the echoing rain
washes the roof in a sea
of chiming keys,
from an old piano.

A girl dips her fingers into the sea,
singing church hymns, out of key.
God plays the rain like a piano.
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