before him,
i had never dived before

i chose to rest my head
on the banks instead
the safety of keeping dry,
the power of never giving
was enough to keep me satisfied.

now, with him

i dive for pearls,
treasure, anemones; red, glowing
dancing by their own living fire,
in the midst of the pale blue sheets.

yet, like all good things
we have come to an end.
bodies emerge from water,
reality is always only a shirt away,
discarded on the floor.

after,

cooling down, sharing mugs of water
mouths reborn, bodies shivering,
ears slowly start to un-pop,
washed up on the shore, once more.

do you ever notice,
how i won’t stop making jokes,
just to make you open the curtains,
let your teeth open the blinds,
as they peel apart, crescent moon shaped
letting your natural light flood over us,
even in the dark of mid-morning bleariness.

(brightness,
creating brown eyes glazed in honey,
my morning coffee).

but then somewhere above,
a cloud overcasts the rays.
minor eclipses, everyday
stealing the moment from me.

the sky has a way of telling you to look away,
i think.
but i’ve never been a fan of reality checks,
i don’t think.

as always, it’s bittersweet,
to see you in grey one more time.
a sepia photograph reminding me,
always,
that sometimes what’s for you,
does goes by you, with the wind
never to be had or held again.

but instead of dwelling on it,
i weave these dulled threads into a blanket,
cotton, familiar, protecting,
to put over my heart.
because every time you look at me,
as the light comes in,
i can see exactly what she’s falling,
drowsily, wholeheartedly
in love with.

and i won’t tell a lie, old boy
it hurts.

And so, she chose to reveal her heart.
Tore her ribcage door open,
and flinched as she waited for
the rays to spill and burn her up.

Instead, she was stunned to find
that the sun warmed even the darkest corners.
That the dappled glow kissed every sinew,
and she was filled instead with the light.

my feelings are contained in lines of words
filled in a gas balloon
Fluffy in a sweet cake
depicted in a beautiful painting
don't you realize?
my feelings continue to grow and inflate

I love you.  



For the flowers on my bedside.

And the cat videos in my DMs.

[In which Aphrodite ponders monogamy, 21st century style]


She’d come far since that whole Botticelli scandal,

astride a shell, hair tumbled about her ******,  

sensuality and a taste for illicit thrill (a real wild myth)

but now the candid canvas only required a google by the Book Club’s prying judgment,

she’d since traded Olympus for a semi-detached.  


All his shirts were folded, perfectly pressed,

ham and chips congealing by the microwave  

and he should have been back before Hollyoaks.  

They met in their local, he bought her a pint and mused

over Milton of all people, his degree finally put to use,

justifying the ways of God to men.  

Impressed and tipsy his back was soon against the wall, no tricks needed.  


He kissed all over her divinity,  

admired the quote encircling her ankle, from a trip round Asia

to find herself, at age nine thousand and nineteen.  

As they made love a spell fell on her for once in a millennia

Married in months, too young, well he was,  

and her face had always been twenty-two.  

Then came the mortgage, the Labrador, the kids, the affairs.  


At the bottom of a wine glass she pondered on the irony

after all what was the point of an eternity weaving passion into the world  

with your husband’s ‘lunch meetings’ equating to rolls on Travelodge sheets?

Not her style at all, too tacky.  

She could work her charms, make everything rose-tinted,  

but the bitterness intoxicated.


On the sofa, her side, she dwelled again on Botticelli,  

spilling her beauty on a page,

passion and dexterity, a lost breed- this century was so unpromising.  

Aphrodite thought on her conquests- Ares, Poseidon, Adonis

gods between her thighs, making her mountains move,  

oceans boiling madly, bruised skies crackling with fire,  

tangled bedsheets,  

hair,

hands caressing skin and creating worlds, and…


…and on her mortal, a balding, a boring, a bland  

disappointment.


Off came the clothes, the wedding ring and the phone from its hook.  


Imagine the pizza boy’s confusion as the door opened to the sound of the heavens singing  

rays of ethereal light warming his pubescent, pock-scarred face.  

A naked, pearly goddess,

and those golden, flaxen locks snaking, seducing, ensnaring as he staggered into the rosy blur.


It was impossible, after all, to justify the ways of gods to men.  


But how clichéd.

A clear Sunday in early May, hitching on the back of your old bike, the sun blinking sluggishly through verdant, street-side trees.  

You locked up against some railings, pushed the door with a jangling bell. Our fingers found each other across the aisles.

The shop smelt of must and lost decades. Dusty sheets threw spectres over looted treasures from long-gone homes.

And the gems we found: two candlesticks winking from the corner at the couple – the final touch to make this thing whole.  

Ten months of us. Too soon to be playing house, playing adults. Bold and brassy, those brave turrets gleamed on our mantle with:

my wooden elephants,  
and your expensive speakers,  
and our broken radio,  
and my loathed incense,  
and your tacky books,  
and our pointless arguments,  
and my guilty frustration,  
and your resentful adoration,  
and our ******* mess.  

Eight months too long, staring at the bold brass and hating them, making them home in boxes labelled Yours and Mine and What a Waste.

i dream about your lips...

...they look nice

pleasantly pink and supple
delectable even
i’m sure they’ll feel so wonderful
placed delicately upon mine

i indulge in the thought of your touch

(warm and safe)

curled up at your side
breathing you in
your scent unknown to me

something i’m eager to decipher

once i am released from this cage
i promise to devour you
every inch of your body
no secrets between our skin

and if you so choose


...no clothes either...


just pure ecstasy
produced by the entanglement
of unveiled bodies

and teen angst

i fantasise about love
and how we might make it
time and time again
beside the purest of touch

(a soft embrace)

never forgetting it began with a song
and grew with isolation
cultivating longing
strengthening our bond...

                                              

        ­                                                                 ­       ...good enough...




...until the day i can hold your hand