My wife and I aren’t one and one. We are two halves that make a whole. You have to apply yourself to be a family. Two halves fitted together are more efficient than either half would be alone.” Bruce Lee
Moonburnt elbow pointing to the sea He crafts clay spiracles Spires of butterfly breath - In deeds of our skin home We learn to dream of being each other.
Return to sleeper, Crepuscular creases Of a chaotic ironed day Float flint'ed arrow head Into rain-pain shower.
Hypnotic push-me pull-me Of twilight versed tide, Rocks us, finally, To delirious slumber.
We stood on the stretch of beach Where wave does never reach, Sometimes, Fog placed ‘Old Rust’ in her pocket So we drew the ghost instead. Crayon misted keeper of light Shuffled, trilby and tweed, Drowned sailors saluted him.
I tell myself: The lighthouse has waited for my return, But merely home for tired sea birds & nesting long forgotten memories.
Imprisoned by your poetry, (Cell) membrane flayed, flamed As roses set the frost on fire. Sonnet’ised stanza Turns my skin to A purple love bite.
Breath of my sightations Moisten her index finger, In Wo(o)lf waves Ocean kerb kisses silver froth Its eternal tide is set to auto-pilot. We have nothing to wait for: Only the succulent seduction In our delicious seclusion.
Tissue’d Titian fibres Carefully open entry to Museum of Immaterial Mind: Rooms one to ten glaze over, Twelve...