We say goodbye,
our eyes rosed and tender,
our hands falling apart.
as I part -whispering a kiss
on your tear laced cheek.
London
You Are Not My Friend
Enveloped in cotton I fidget
revolving in my sheets,
stabs of light piercing the venetian blinds.
Bemused by last night’s journey home.
My core nauseous
from spent pleasure
and shame
from the night before.
I was there,
in full force.
Regaling unfamiliar ears
with the same stories.
It Should All Go Wrong Pt 2
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 Pt 1
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.
I Speak Of You
How may I speak of you?
With words removed from cliché.
Into my breath you pass through,
breathing words of virgin amouré.
Distant you’re a glow in a sombre air,
your clarity breaking night.
I approach to see what’s there,
and my soul flutters to flight.
Amber Liquor
The sun shifts it’s glow,
it’s shine a moody amber,
casting shadows under the awning.
The air grows cold and clear
while we exclaim novel raison d’êtres,
new perspectives,
planning passionately dreams of a life possible,
our minds filled with ill informed hope.
Old Ladders
Through the narrow streets of the gentrified east.
I roam the roads of Shoreditch, its cleanse in final revolution.
A Postulant Lie
Her eyes well
reflecting self sorrows;
cascading refrains of a difficult present.,
of advantage taken
innocence defiled.
A world of persecution- postulated
all face her direction.
Her figure trembling without defense.
Suffering projectiles
from spite filled assaults.
We all turn
we all attack.
Her cardinal refrain.
J.C. FitzDerick 