hearts thrum softer in winter
Nostalgia is a broken window
With pain of distance as glass,
Who was that boy who wrapped butterflies in cherry skins
Stealing delicate memories which were not his own?
The eye is not satisfied with seeing.
The mind in its cottage
Bath water tides shingle the skin
Frames the white beds lovers will share.
What ghosts will rise once the moon wanes?
Shooting stars collapse
After birth of the unborn,
Into fertile seas.
Seeds fire from shot guns
Slaughter wounds don’t always run red……
Highly strung ghosts touch
The neurosis of an edgy city,
A piano plays in empty abattoir
Rigor mortis fingers sew the slit
Of the river’s silt brown throat.
Closing time at the wet house
A drunk corpse paints
Water lillies with nicotine breath
Along ricochet of rats.
Silvered alley shadows
Sleek beneath paper sky:
Origami Gods summon
The A4 death bed.
Bed time stories do not speak of resuscitation.
Repatriate the feelings
Mourn the feathers which fell in flight,
Colour me gently in minimal hue
Place my heart on the edge of pier 13.
Push the torn pillow closer to the moon
Still the snow falls
Me and you
*Pic. ‘Self Portrait’ Lucian Freud
“He painted a detailed image of his eyes and nose and dishevelled cobra-like hair, and the tips of his fingers touching his cheek, leaving the rest white. That white space seems to be eating away at his flesh, about to devour the rest of it. Even his painted fingertips seem to be clawing at his face — an image of extreme torment.”