don't you dare sneer
and walk away from me
as if we meant nothing
as if i were nothing
to you

you were a planet
to me
now you are dust

how dare you call my poetry dust
how dare you brush away my love
like dust

i missed that
tiny white pill
it stops
me from chattering.
i tremble without it
buzzing.

you might
perceive me
as still
but i am erratic.
shivering.
tiny white pill
stopping the

wide eyed
teary
expression.

it keeps me
kissing you
it keeps me
sane.
it lets me dance

but you
make me sing.

are you
a tiny
white pill?

Make your love unspeakably wild she told me
like the textures of your nakedness
in the dripping sun and blinding water
when its late, late august
before the first damp morning
when you can’t deny
that the real heat is gone from the night.
It's ok to be sentimental if
it keeps the buzz in your ears
in this nowish spot in time
when there’s less and less
to draw you out of your nest.
There’s every excuse for this dullness
after a quick seven years
the weight of it shows in your face
on your grandfather’s heavy brow.
You both wondered
why you sometimes felt like strangers in this place
and why the sweetness of brome
can send you reeling in the dusk.
Seven years gleaned of their mornings
like so many beans in a bright steel pan.
Arriving late and later still
I felt the dawns irredeemable chill
and in the bluest of October afternoons, she said,
may your love be unspeakably wild.

instead of a hearty declaration of love
i simply whispered, ‘oh, ****’

and you realised you’d never be rid of me
and now i sleep with a faint smile on my lips
and love bites tracing my hips

Four walls and one door
maintaining (perfectly) in-tune
with the outside world,
countless libraries and braver
brains in court, fingertips
away.

Too much sometimes, too much
noise and sleepless racket,
no need for hotel wifi or
roaming minutes, change nowadays
burns faster than
relationships.

I woke today to find
bombshells exploding elsewhere,
slaughtered innocents and
captives in bright silver fences
until the next time I
read about it.

My brain is spent running in
slow-motion. I have glasses now,
my vision once was perfect but
staring at screens beat biology
to the punch: a most frightening
revelation.

the day after christmas
the morning after a quarrel
i took my daughter for a walk
setting off from my parents’ house
to walk my hometown streets
in the eerie damp silence
of a public holiday
the park was too wet and cold for play
i felt bad dragging her down there
she walked a few planks, slipped
thought the mud was dog **** and cried a little
we abandoned ship
aimed towards a bar in town
where we could find hot chocolate
and beer
as we were leaving the park
a young couple arrived
with a bounding labrador
a boxing day stroll
a breath of fresh air
for the fresh young couple
ten years fresher than i
him, tall and willowy
her, short, round hips and bottom
pretty face and plaited hair
wellies, jeans and fleece coats
she looked warm and friendly
he looked relaxed
carefree
they strolled past but didn't see us
my daughter asked me a question
but I was peering into the
young couple’s lives
being obvious
imagining them under fresh white cotton sheets
on a lazy sunday morning
after a party
where they each had a few drinks
not too many
where they sat together all night
he doesn’t always smoke ****
when he drinks
and they never *****
they’re never too drunk for ***
when she’s tipsy she rides him
pulls extra *** faces
she doesn’t mind him seeing her floppy *******
it excites him
but the morning after it’s simple missionary
his bony hips pushing up
into her warm seat
eyes locked
a tray by the bed with bacon crusts and empty tea mugs
simple pleasures
if either one of them had caught my eye in the park
my stares were screaming:
‘i’m having marital problems
and i’m honestly scared!
i want what you have!’
but they didn’t look
the dog ran ahead and the girl
threw a wet tennis ball
but her aim was bad
and she caught her lover square
on the back of the head
it was a soft throw
it didn't hurt him
but he was livid
he spun around and glared at her
she apologised and trotted towards him
he stormed away
stopped by the tennis court fence
hand to the back of his head
to mark the insult
when she reached him
he shouted at her
about her lack of judgement
her eyes widened and nostrils flared
my daughter was still talking to me
i held her cold, clammy little hands
and we watched the young man shouting
at the cowering young woman
and i realised that there was
a serious possibility
that no one is happy
we’re all *******
familiarity does breed contempt
i threw my daughter on my shoulders
and showed her the tennis shed
where i used to smoke cigarettes

Love and those things aren’t as romantic anymore
It’s not as letters,
or Shakespeare's sonetts
sprinkled with red kisses and Chanel N5
We don’t call on the house phone anymore,
dreading that her father will pick up
And the cinema isn’t as it was
The boys weren’t on Tinder to “make omelettes ;)”
Girls didn’t complain about their life on twitter
And really, it’s not as romantic to dream and lose you
when the only simile I have is
“I have replayed your photostory as many times as the sun sets”
Love and those things

**26.07.14

Austyn met a bad boy.
He ****** her like a *****.
She hid and hid and hid and hid
Because maybe she deserved more.

Austyn met just some boy.
He hit her one time or maybe four
Austyn shrugged and told her mother,
"What's a little more?"

Austyn ****** a good boy.
His girlfriend was such a bore.
Austyn was mistaken for entertainment.
She hated herself some more.

Austyn is a little girl.
Daddy's creeping through the door.
Austyn is 16, alone, in bed, bleeding and screaming:

"Please
No more,
No more."