I introduced you to its sweetness
tart, as it lands on a layer of butter
melting, liquefying like your naivety
as it sinks and combines
with the churlish surface
of the bread,
staring at the pairing
like a jaded ear of corn
waiting to be plucked
from the earth,
from field to flour
yeasty dough
to the furnace of the oven
and back to the electric embers
of the toaster,
where you commune with preserves
and lessons on taste,
the soft, sugared rubies of the jam
know their place.
Speak no ill
let the words you hear
be wrapped in love, understanding and patience.
Hush lips with a warm confessional seal
become priestly in your manner,
otherwise, idle talk is infected
with disregard.
For every ear that swallows the story
three others watch with glee,
if you doubt this
scatter the words of a fairytale
in the air, then watch it
fly back
forlorn,
like Icarus.
Pen ink watches
as spectres dance
a sprightly walk,
the moon fills my mouth
as bitter clouds talk.
Jura-scented breath
an hour spent alone
syrupy light fades,
with an ambivalent moan.
My pen fathers words
with rapturous speed
a day-long battle,
against misanthropy and fatigue.
The shadows of the day pass comment on my state,
naked and lithe
enjoying the mossy carpet under bare flesh
of buttocks, tanned by a hand
teased by rough kisses
stamped onto downy skin
by eager, pink lips.
I am now, timeless
breathless
rendered like a freshly cast bronze figurine
formed from molten thoughts
into tangible,
tactile ore.
I am ready
to be smelted
into a new form,
transformed by heat
at the whim
of time.
All that I have laid on a table with carved legs,
fragrant cedar disguising the smell of avarice,
the aroma engulfes the angry, swiping hand of a prophet.
Silently mouthing “Relinquish all”
as eyes burn a message into me,
the walls
and the air
like a savage mist of rage,
as I cower,
under the malevolent cloud
the wrath
of truth
seeps,
like willful sulphur
opening pores, minds
to changed names and numbers,
guilty splinters from floorboards,
carving their initials
into heels
worn smooth
by the path
of greed.
We were sisters
once,
So, as you turn,
on smug heels
leaving an blunt blade
in my gaping gut
it’s not blood you see,
it’s the soured milk
of sisterhood.
The stirring, lulling rhythm of traffic
announcing the end of the working day,
Streetlamps beating invisible eyelids
glowing softly, triggered by October dusk,
delirium in its waning smile.
Rubble of industry,
forms hills
like soft grey breasts
leisurely on a bed of gravel, reclining.
By Aston station,
an ancient tavern
The Swan and Mitre,
its reddish frontage
gazing mournfully
at the road,
longing for sunnier days
where locals suck on cheap cigars
in the doorway.
Trains glide,
silently,save for a static buzz.
All folk can be found here,
from the cogs of commerce
to chattering students
lulled by the gentle yet goading pitch
of a crammed carriage.
Sharp, quick footsteps slow,
absorbing the realm of the ordinary.
Power lines, cackling and hissing
like fretting witches, worrying over a drying pot
bringing life, the walk home
into focus.
These are not men
in jackboots,
the velvety, suede pelt
of the Right, absent.
A polyester suit,
vinegary sweat
sousing the bloated body
of ‘respectability’.
Your presence, permitted by democracy
abhorred by the majority
as you close the eyes
of rationality,
with pennies, bloody pennies.
The cadaver
of sanity, the reeking husk
drowning in a sewer
of ‘respectability’.
The thousand gardens in your heart
enraptured with thorns that lacerate,
infect, with venom that nobody believes
exists, incarnate in the form of a pregnant
fist.
Violence gives birth in Paradise,
beneath yews and larches,
the bruise
rosy like a maiden bride,
removing her veil for her first, time.
Mother, the grazed hand
gazes appreciatively
eyes like opals,
streaked with hate.
A hopeless sky,
an apathetic sun
seeks exile behind the horizon.
Now, darkness,
blinds the wanton fist
longing for spite,
to drink again
from the springs
that beats, sustains
Paradise.
A sickly orange stripe
a backdrop for the words “outgoing”
and “return”,
issued as a two-part chronicle
on slippery, strong
rounded edged
with the deceptive strength
of a warrior monk
in flaming robes.
