Thursday, 1 December 2011


youth: like sketching out
life in pencil, a fear of
ink indelible
down the stones I claw,
lurching on hind legs: morning
freeze on arched bare feet
eyeing-up queue jumps,
latching onto prosperous
currents, bleary-red
no harvested heat,
the duvet pulled from us in
the cold steel of night
the morning caress
of your kiss on my lips: a
double caffeine shot
my shoulders sag like
contented hammocks: she is
dispelled to my dreams
they trade their limbs for
poppies: the glorious men
in wasted Glory.

No comments:

Post a Comment