Folds of mouldering
grey clouds enshroud a pale sky
like cold curdled whey.

Heaven holds its breath
then spits petulantly down
upon frowning Earth.

Swollen, sagging sky
that's filled with fat, congealed clouds
ready for the rain.

A sunny summer’s day again;
When endless serenity fills the sky,
stills the Earth and
instills my mind with
a kind of listless energy
that exists somewhere
between bliss and lethargy.

I feel as though I can do anything;
Yet I know there are still so many things
I must get through
that I’ve no time to lose
and should therefore choose
which one I should do.

So I tried to decide –
but I got so confused that I had to deduce
there was simply no use
in letting myself get stressed out;

That the best thing to do
was to let the mess rest –
ignore all the chores and just
cure my sore and aching head
by taking a pew at my desk
(and taking my cue from this mess)
to write quite a tight poem instead
about how I’m lightly but still delightfully distressed
by this mess in my head.

Delightfully disproportionate features
form the basis of your face;
For your ears are neither here nor there –
they’re lost in the forest of your lustrous hair;
Whilst your eyes are disguised
by brows of deep brown,
that creep together when you frown
across the bridge that exists on the ridge of your nose,
where they greet each other with a rigid kiss
that just grows and grows and grows…

And on your cheeks your crow’s
feet lie listlessly, yet move their toes insistently
to show the world explicitly
that of course they don’t agree with
all that applesauce you speak of
with that mumbling mouth of yours, that’s
flanked by fading lips which still gaily get to grips
with a jumble of uncouth words
all hung on a whipcord tongue that can suddenly become
as soft and smooth as spun silk.

Cause you’re the only one of your ilk;
A defective manifestation
of a masterpiece of creation;
A random representation
and a precise personification.
You’re a filter-free reflection
of every furtive fault in me, drawn
with delectable imperfection –
and that’s just how you should be.

If you play with fire,
You’re gonna get burnt –
That was the lesson I learnt
when I was very young…

So I must be very dumb
to let you start
playing with my heart –
When that tongue of yours
spits out sparks
with every breath you take.

And every word you make
Catches on your lips and rips
against them like matches,
Blowing the glowing embers
of your lies tenderly
into my eyes where they catch against
my blind desire.

If you play with fire,
You’re gonna get burnt –
That was the lesson I ignored
when I was very young…

So I guess it doesn’t hurt
when I get burnt.

Or maybe I just prefer
being dumb.

Imagine sighing
into a silent night –
and all the stars
suddenly take flight
upon your breath
to rest
upon the empty midnight sky.

Imagine how it would feel
to know
you hold the universe
in your breast
every time
you hold you breath.

Would it be too much
for you to bear?
Or would you dare
to open wide
your lips and eyes
and laugh
as you give birth
to your universe
with a simple, sensual sigh…?

While our eyes form the windows to our souls
In our hands we possess less nebulous portals;
For they hold a way to let the universe in
as we find and feel, define and deal
with the weight of all worldly things.
So if something is more than conceptual,
We choose to use our hands to express our souls;
A high-five, a handshake, a round of applause,
A raised fist, a punch (or a good ol’ ‘up yours’);
How we give and take, develop and break the bonds
that bind us, are all defined by the gestures we make.
And yet –
Though these gestures seem sure and strong,
This purest way in which to communicate
can be the surest way to make a mistake.

Daydreaming;
Streaming then sieving
through words to find
their precious meaning
whilst leaving behind
the ***** sediment of
unneeded sentiments
which do not heed
the verse.