Sweet smirks turn sour- He must be getting tired, Choosing fewer words Still means an hour For thoughts to be transpired, Broken into thirds. Must be the cancer, I sit helpless as it feasts: Dreaded spreaded crab. * Now he won't answer. Less pain when asleep at least, Even on a slab.
The moon blinked, and missed a comet flash across the velvet fill.
We did not and watched its solitary mission from atop a hill
Whilst the heath slept soundly beneath our gaze.
Without warning, courage hitched upon the back of blue trail blaze
And taking my chance without a breath: I did ask her to marry me.
Thoughts soon thinked before that comet is seen around these parts-
Not least before the beating ceases within our own hearts.
But as flesh does flake, our everlasting love does soar
Like the comet we watched, as it returns once more
Following a thousand years without a breath: Another does ask his to marry he.
Contemplating, poor and pale, picking up his pen'll Make them wait in for the mail from his kennel- Working his way up through smells of first, disgust, Second, discontent, And finally, roses And finish by filing things through the rings of a string of posies, He supposes But supposing leads to greater expectations.
Every morning sees boiling water poured upon cool, arid crumbs of clay And once the steam clears to reveal that day’s strength too much or few either way, Marvels at how the pungent vapours are enough to send the creator shooting next door, Where he disposes of the skipped breakfast, fast lunch and burnt supper of the day before. Half asleep, he welcomes the icy seat And sits until his thighs are numb- Contemplates needless snippets of retreat Until he returns to a mug as earthly cold as his feet And flicks the kettle again with an unwashed thumb.
Sitting alone is not a worry; Rather, it's a comfort- Notice more, look beyond, some thought, Like how my posture is weak, How I make more sense if I do not speak And how crass the sofas are in here- a flurry Of misguided stripes and veloured twee. Perhaps it is intentional; Perhaps I do not get it- the joke is invitational. So I sit uninvited and surrounded by Idiotic invitees with loud laughs from paltry wits, why It is times like these I am glad I get on with me.
An expression that may induce a bath by the warm fuzz of June sun
Whilst nostrils twitch tickled by cut grass on the ground.
Or mould postcards in the mind of lovers entwined on starry nights,
Of defenseless water fights and unspoken talks
And stalled walks home the long way around.
Yet that’s what we were.
And that’s what it was.
You’d giggle to be polite and I’d peek down your top every second I was able.
We’d lock lips everywhere from abandoned extensions to rugby conventions,
Through wrought iron fences and other cities and dimensions
- Not to mention during that after-school detention for disabling the power cable.
Other times, it was simply behind your mother’s back and on the kitchen table.
Listen to this song, it reminds me of you/ us/ this time/ that time/ delete as applicable.
We were stable.
But as I write, you think I’m wrong again.
The door complains that you didn’t shut it properly,
And the man across the street watches unashamedly
As your car tries to catch up with your frustration waywardly.
When you disappear from view, his concern-cloaked curiosity switches to me, but I stare down.
I watch the ink embrace with tears
And wonder what has changed since those bygone years.
And that’s the problem;
I was the best thing to enter your life when I was sixteen and sauseflem.
Today, whilst my complexion is less so, our love is more burdensome:
Indeed, sweetheart, we’ve become too accustomed.
Alas, my coat summons; I’ve outstayed my welcome.