Dream

We’re an infinity of caramel limbs and cream cotton sheets.

Curtains curtailing hail and sleet

the world knocking at the window of our whispered softness.

The fan heaters on, you said you were cold naked.

Perhaps we’ll have pancakes for brunch,

Times moved on since you last entered my arms.

When you return I’ll make you chai tea, the one

your hands taught mine.

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Morning Coffee 

I everyday run for the bus. Pouring out the café, a quick stream to the next leg   Lateness a subtle concern, a moment ago leafing through Du Bouchet next slicing my shoulder to spud the oyster reader. Punctual to the bus stop,  though the bus dropped me a couple minutes late… 

It’s been a week and two days since I had an informal chat about punctuality. It may be 2-4 minutes, I maintain they’re negotiably mine. Hours I put in as a nocturnal volunteer forgotten. 

This morning I’m on a slightly different route, with a homemade moka pot macchiato, I should be on time now. My time is my own. 

I’m unsure about next week. Routine defiance I suppose.  A temporal fuck you of four-five minutes. A statement of ownership. An affront to money &  management’s side-eye.

Thought

I suppose it’s inevitable

like the earth pulling sky towards you.   Dissent,
in pursuit of ascension.
Anguish laden dew lingering post impact.
Uneasy, our shoulders nervous -as an Atlas shifting his load.

Our mind the centre of elusive effort
Settled sedentary memories recalling leisure’s illegal occupation,
Ethereal abuse from figures existing in the moments between unfocused blinks.

Though with the swipe of keys and the addition of words
the sky’s smokey hue trembles a forgiving azur.
The opened hand allowing the clearing of stale air

Drugs 

That’s the thing about drugs, 

They seep to your core 

a reflection of failure – the image obscure in smoke. 

I enjoy the plastered amusement. The transient pleasure exhaled in a silent  destructive whisper.

It’s all the same,  it just fizzed with a velvet stroke. 

My lungs swell     exhaling   a putrid air. 

Tonglen, perhaps,  a reversal of states. 

I’ve years yet to die. 

But I wonder if these years between freedom and cold expulsion draw nearer. 

I’m the same as the year before 

My inspiration stands unperturbed by the hanging tranquil haze. 

Can this be what it’s become?

I know it’s not.

Old eyes

It’s never easy meeting a fallen kindred spirit, their face reflecting your soul

For those who look

You can see the mirrored minutae of you

Often I feel they’re unseen, we all stuck looking for the reflection of our Facebook self. 

A glossed fiction unfound in others unfounded in reality. 

Still I see myself in the fleeting gloss of your lonely eye. 

It like the an old friend who once looked upon me. 

LVE

It’s been  while since we’ve spoke, 

I wonder…  because if stigmatised truth or dearth of substance. 

I feel it’s the subject, it turned an obscure ombre.

A minds regard of the quiet clandestine workings of a wandering eye. 

And a relative conscious. 

I read love poems of devotions and pure affection. They too like the gloss movies, a reality away from the compromises and warmth of daily love. 

In fiction it vanquishes all, but I see it beaten by jealousy, pettiness and self pity.

A sacred pantomime we all dance to, I’ve found mine but still I wonder.