Dabs of white silk insulate us from the summers sun's glow. As I, legs akimbo s t r e t c h upon my bed. Yellow sheets kicked to a hill at my feet. The walls yellow and the winter throw too. A petit Sri Lankan Buddha perched on the sill clocks this summer's air.
It did all go wrong
–its obvious end.
Our chance taken on the brittle words
that brought us together -shattered and disowned.
Leaving us as before…
Bereft of the other.
I retreated from our union,
jabbing thistles in our bond
ringing an alert of a union awry.
It should all go wrong,
we met in a place of false fronts and lying selves.
A glossy lieu, with suave social personas
titivated to an idealised reality.
Vollies of double ticked messages passed
and through their shallow blue
we were born to each other, rosey eyed
unaware of each other’s face.
We encountered in an entent fragile,
in a room sombre,
scented sweet with amber ale;
our social devotion weak and optional.
Si je parle français ?
La vie à Lyon,
au Croix Rousse même.
Ici Je dessin le coeur des figures
qui me passent,
une plume à main
un piccolo à l’autre.
Ou viver no Brazil
Tomando um café e escreve em Portugues.
Minha língua dançando samba,
como bossas tropicais lavar sobre mim.
Minha alma de ouro do sol equatorial.
I sit here in passage
an architect of sand castles,
creations washed away
as I construct another.
The wind whispers away
her arabica secrets.
Within her body my cure, elegant
corseted in bone china.
She holds my personality’s fix,
to vivid life,
removed from days mundane realism.
In her embracing air I’m adrift,
attention swayed
by the hips of passing others,
punctuated by sips
of scolding salvation.
You, born the eleventh
in poetry’s month,
exhale pure air.
on virgin canvas.
Your purity shared
in the sweeping
loops of words bled
on page.
Lost dans le sud,
In a city if sand and chateaux.
The ambience est chaud,
Les oiseaux chantent aux cafés
de place de Lenche.
The chorus of passers-by,
animating the narrow streets.
J.C. FitzDerick 