I don’t open the curtains these days.

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The sun is garish
and always yelling –

a loud exhibitionist
a tactile party guest

drunk on their own stories –

it spills around the room
touching everything
behind my thin eyelids
with hot, glittering hands.


We prefer the dark –
the simmering violet void of night

that leaves the vulgar
roaring remnants of day

clinging to the edges

a night that does not
force herself upon you,
but pulls you close.

You lean in

her chasmic depths are moonless.

 

Fever Dream

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I dreamed last night
of an empty room,
of absent colour,
swaddled tight
in pitch and gloom.

I woke in fright, in
spice-lined sheets,
the heat of night
having bled a cool
clarity from my mind – oh
I dreamed last night.

I saw darkness seep
into the lines, and
blur the light
and though I know
I have no right

I long to tell you why
I dreamed last night.

Babydoll

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She had known men
and the language of them

She had heard all of their words
and felt them grip her beneath tables

Perhaps the way she smiled a lot
or touched her hair, or
even what she’d wear,
would bring it on

This is not a mating song.

When she was nine
a neighbour told her parents
that she’d soon be in her prime –
he winked and
they had laughed

In upper school she’d
doodled secret hearts
for boys that hung about in parks
in packs, ’til one called her
His Missus – for that
he’d taken more than kisses

Hot cola breath and
both hands on – that week,
a few diary entry misses

A decade after that
one had pushed her knees apart
in a bar, as she sat:
she’d said she wanted an early night –
she liked a lager
but had to get home to bed
and to feed her cat

Tell you what you need
instead of all that
he’d said
and then he told her

Now she was older

The sun of her youth had set
but still they’d come
and leave her wondering
what about her
made them feel so strong

This is not a love song.

Tonight she’ll find
some way to keep her back
from the wall –
her voice is gone and
this is not a song at all.

 

 

Architecture

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I know the shape of your face
so well, I could trace it onto

the arm of the sofa
the loose flour you left on the counter
the leg of my good jeans

I see the lines of you
and the directions they run

The frame that holds you –
an original

These contours cut
into my line of vision
when you aren’t around
to look at

Andromeda

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I dreamed you
came to me
and wanted to tattoo the night sky
on my body

Starting small, you
cut into me
and marked the constellations
across my skin

Pegasus on my pinkie
Cassiopeia on my collarbone
Lyra on my lip
Hydra on my heart

After that, you
swept across me –
mapped the nebulae until
I was full

Bored suddenly, you
peered over me
hid your inks and left
the open wounds

unfinished and incomplete:
a partial galaxy