Cold side of the bed
Deliver me affections
that I may eye and draw upon
to soothe my heart’s afflictions,
and feed me not the colder kind
that binds my skin to icy claws,
and finds me thin upon the floors
of Friday-night addictions,
and were I home with you tonight
I’d fight the cold with kisses.
Prelude to The Wandering Rose
Seemingly ever out of reach,
but holds the hearts of many,
her deepest thoughts are hers to keep
and call upon when ready.
Free-spirited, but fleeting,
and singing as she goes,
my heart is ever-beating for
the darling wandering rose.
Corner of my eye
How precious those diagonals,
that criss and cross along the cloth
and plates that island every crease
between our foreign glances.
Conversing far beyond our tongues
and rules that govern parted shores,
there speaks a language, known to those
who’ve mastered the unspoken.
Hidden in each hearty laugh
and smiles that kindle inner-thought,
a vibrant flow, that glows and grows,
lights up the room and all its hearts.
How precious these diagonals
to hold and harbour all our words,
and how subtle we both find ourselves
in voicing the unheard.
Rebound
Fickle as they come
and go, without a parting word,
fly-tipping memories
into a pit of disregard
that rots in the sun,
and burns in the cold
like the icy, sharp and beatless heart
inhabiting my chest as a squatter,
stealing my blood (like the thief it is)
and filling my veins with wonder;
of a kind that’s built to ever-desire,
and priding itself in trickery.
But lest we forget the victims,
lying and lying to their new-found lovers…
and modesty deserts me.
Not wise, but privy to workings ever-deeper;
evermore, everless, and always deceiving.
Take care to examine the love you’re receiving.
Tailor-made
United against our every undoing,
succeeding to quell our extinction,
yet fight amongst our common hands
and hearts of little distinction.
With a finger of shame, we point and blame
at showcased felons, and scorn.
Catching eyes in the mirror, it couldn’t be clearer
where the lies and deception were born.
And had we the time to record every crime
or in-bred diseases of thinking,
then sleep lay resigned, and seldom we’d find
but a moment that warrants our blinking.
Fashion me, tailors, a social religion
to taper me tight at the hips.
But grant me illusion to make the decision
of how best to lie with my lips.
Some may call me smug
An altogether different type of alpha-male,
free from the abuses that install false confidences,
he sits and ponders and scouts his prey,
ready to close his soft and selfless jaws
around the pulsing artery that dances in their necks,
lapping up their crimson hearts with a tongue that’s built for banter,
leaving the plump and undeserving chest of a bolder kind
heaving with wasted air,
swallowing their prejudices through an unhinged jaw.
Watch now as he takes his leave,
takes the girl, and takes your pride.
Altogether different, and still what’s more,
that dazzling beauty, she will be loved,
bring him tea when he’s grey and old,
adore and be adored.
Stir two spoons of sugar in youth,
and death with taste quite bitter.
Orbit
Sometimes,
even on the brightest day,
suspended like a pearly bubble,
she glows,
and beams her shiny smile;
a distant glimpse of heaven.
Though seldom do we share the sky,
I often, from behind the hills,
steal a setting glance,
and grin with rosy lips
as I slip behind the brow.
And when morning comes,
I stretch my golden fingers,
reaching out to hug her.
But her silver heart grows weary,
and softly undeterred
she sleeps,
and dreams beneath my fire.
But sometimes,
even when I burn the most,
a kindly, cool complexion,
suspended like a pearly bubble,
wakes from sleep and kisses me,
and orbits my reflection.
Ivy
One part sweet
and three parts sour,
the seeds I sewed grow by the hour.
Discreet and neat, they’ll rise to meet,
to greet and flower at my feet.
But now the cold will take a hold,
and tender leaves begin to fold.
They need the sun, they need the rain,
else all their songs were sung in vain
and thrown to winds that howl with power;
bold the bane that scaled the tower
whose bell that rung in the midnight hour
was one part sweet
and three parts sour.
The so-called “modern”
Is this how you’d have it?
Does this tune ring true?
A madman’s ramble,
spewed,
like the innards of drunkards.
Whimsical wisdoms,
stuttered,
severed by line breaks
as if I’d forgotten what I was going to say.
Tell me, is this how you’d have it?
Does this tune ring true?
I’m the stern look on the faces of teachers,
scowling at what you have to say,
belittling you…
Go on.
Feel belittled.
And now I am them.
Words come and go,
abundantly so,
but few seem worthy of the page.
But you desire the splattered canvas.
To be purchased by those who wish to admire
something more thoughtless than they.
Whitehaven
I’ll crash through the swell,
hold my face to the spray,
wipe the salt from my lips
so they can swear and can pray.
Trim the head, trim the main,
crank the winch, pump the stay;
sailing my way to Whitehaven.
When my feet start to ache,
I think of silica sand.
When I tire and fall,
I recall why I stand.
There’s not many here
who can try understand
until they set foot on Whitehaven.
It’s not just her promise,
her colour or shape,
nor is it alone her smell or her taste.
No matter how hard, or how long I must wait,
I’ll never give up on Whitehaven.
Runner
The kingdom bells rang out, rang out,
and cornered every cobbled street,
whose stones lay worn from summer heat,
and scuffed by dashing, running feet.
The windows whispered as he passed,
and clapped (for ignorance is bliss),
but through the cracks they caught a glimpse,
and spoke the origins of legend.
He flew between the roofs of houses,
scaled the heights of the kingdom towers,
looked down upon the streets below,
his eyes, his smile, the both aglow,
and watched the bobbing lanterns,
swimming through the lanes,
forming clusters at open doors,
but the night parade could do no more.
Admitting defeat at the first light of dawn,
retreating, their words as clear as were they worn,
“He’s the son of a ghost,
and in shadows was born.”
If only they were noble
I’ve seen men waste away in the absence of purpose,
caught adrift on the tides of uncertainty,
breaking over the rocks
and casting their indecisiveness
high against the sun,
and I’ve seen the rainbows through their tears,
watched them fall from nowhere skies,
frustrated in their unpaved search
for anything of importance.
I’ve seen them hold to passing clouds,
hugging and struggling to pot their pain,
falling after every drop
in devoted desperation,
in valour and in vain,
in hope there’s love in vertigo,
‘cause there sure ain’t none in rain.
And I’ve seen them dive back through the crest,
plummet beyond their sunken loves,
to deposit another.
Clawing towards the brighter promise;
adrift again, and in dire need
of nobler occupation.
Curiosity killed the cat
That forbidden kiss was just the start;
my thirsty love, your longing heart.
I pulled you close, you took me in,
we filled the time with lips and skin.
If we grew wings, free and blue –
we damn near did, we damn near flew –
d’ya reckon then we’d be okay,
would you take my hand and fly away?
Or are you still tethered, as well as feathered,
and clipped by indecision?
Cos I for one was born to fly,
and won’t rot my heart in prison.
We were happy once to make-believe,
both looking for a reason
to do just as we pleased.
But who’d have thought the lovers
would let their hearts concede,
fall victim to each others’ words,
and watch their promise bleed?
Heart collectors
Steal my beats and rhythms
and stow them in your silver buckets,
chock full of suiters,
kept on ice
beside champagne and French white wine
to keep us all intoxicated,
falling at your feet,
for we are drunk, and have lost our own;
without our legs we cannot stand,
but without our hearts we cannot live,
so we leave them in your capable hands,
to prod and poke, stab or stroke,
however you desire,
‘cause open surgery costs a bomb,
and our love has since retired.
Intrusion
Amazing how
the growls of thunder
crush and shake my fizzy dreams,
pull back the ring
and fire their jets of consciousness,
head-to-head with lightning,
fighting, biting,
gnashing and gnarling,
in a blinding confrontation.
The night, meanwhile, in terror of war,
hugs its tail beneath the bed
and whimpers.