Cute little thing,
Two rows down.
With her dark locks
Encompassing her caramelised skin.
Those pretty eyes above her pretty lips,
May sell pretty dreams and witty lies.
But beauty,
A man’s Achilles heel,
Has my heart racing like a McLaren wheel.
If only the erratic beats within my chest she could feel.

Her skin without blemish,
At least unto mine eyes.
Her legs without ending,
Forever locked in a dance
That only I can see,
The way she walks she speaks my language,
The way she writes she speaks my language,
When she smiles she speaks my language,
When she sighs she speaks my language.

When her guards fall,
She falls,
Into my love filled arms
A whittled down version of my masculinity puts up arms
And emasculation rears its head.
We lie within this room of red.
Satin silk sheets,
Icing on the bed.

Ultimate fantasy --
Visions of falsified ecstasy
Holding her lying next to me,
Sitting two rows down.

i bottled everything inside

problems,
thoughts,
stress

i eventually broke the bottle,

shards of glass flying everywhere

an explosion of my secretive mind.

the glass had sliced the skin of others and myself

but i've learned

that scrapes and cuts heal

and there's nothing you can do but wait

because

time
        is
            **everything.

White maze for the middle classes,
collect your museum passes at the door,
please
continue through into exhibitions,
photo pictures of art you won’t remember the name of
but because you’re educated you’ll hope to retain its
name, medium, date and frame size of,
and equate them with those pieces you Googled before you came.

Through the double doors
her cries walked down the corridors
whilst cradled in his hands, cradled carefully,
he stood upright in boots on the
newly polished granite, shipped-in, floor.

The art gallery Father and Daughter
are the hidden display
only found in writing in the pamphlet
for today. Some will see them
through cuts in the door,
others may hear them but assume
it’s ambient art-gallery-played-through-speakers
sound coming from the back room.

Before the night is through,
I will walk to you,
I will be your moon
And you will be my sun.

Before the night is through,
I will walk to you,
Your words dance on my tongue,
Never to be undone.

A mountain pass,
When my eyes meet yours,
The deepest ocean
Is where her beauty be.

Her lips a sacred touch
Akin to myrrh.
The taste is timeless
A work of art is her.

squeeze you to read you,
the pores that pour out hidden punctuation
that defines and makes and creates pauses for
you to look beautiful in.

there are two velux windows somewhere
in the world that look out onto chimney pots
and rooftops and birds next to each other looking
out over a flight plan that they'll fly together.

in pub seats we'll slide into and across,
placing coats on empty chairs so not to be stolen
and you pause. And out comes a list from behind a breath and a
colon: everything you wish to achieve in a year.