Moorhen Lovers

Sixteen years old,
Stood at that age-less corner,
Same place I still stand now.
Waiting for the 83.

Amidst a handful of shadows.
Hidden in their collars, flecked with rain,
We consciously ignored each other,
Craning our necks for the groan of the bus,
'Without You,' I thought, 'Then Who?' I thought.
On a circular journey, an endless route.

And forever, quietly, ceaselessly, he searched.
Without question or comment,
Or thought of his sacrifice,
He picked through the mud and debris.
I watched him from so far away,
Not knowing what I was looking for, or looking at.
'Without You' I thought, 'Then Who?'
Maybe. Maybe I was the one worth leaving.

She sits on her throne of twigs.
Proud of her achievement,
Without thought of her sacrifice.
As she waits for his return,
I am ignored entirely.
She reaches over and kiss as he parts with his prize.
And the lining to a nest is not all that is passed.
'You're not even arguing anymore,' she'd said, laughing.
'Without You, I thought. 'Then Who?' I thought.
And raised my eyes to the closing evening.

Beauty Regime

Bruised suburbia passes by,
Remnants of home if I scratched and searched.
Streets curve away and cast what light they have,
Fade as the evening grows old.

I nod to my lunar friend, Klimt’s kiss waits for me,
Sleep comes like a dress to be undone.
Fountain of youth, so they called it, still stands firm.
Lights behind the door for good men to recompense the day.
Leaning over the iris of water, an Echo from far away.
So many things will outlast me.
So many things still to learn.

Pocks and grit and Graffiti walls and shadows fought,
All the lovers in the world and all the spaces in between.
The dogs crept, as you wrapped around me.
Perfect S, mascara tears, rags in my hands I grip to the light.
The hardest part is always the knowing.
You’re not the boy I thought you were, she’d said.
Pick the bones clean, leave her to her beauty regime.

Us. Together.

Sleep will not come because sleep will not will it.
The veins of this city stretch away, distill the morning.
As I sit to capture and fix in words. Us. Together.
Arrange to decorate a blank facade.

Wind and rain won't penetrate our embrace,
But I peel at the rust of time and space.
That little sound, of which we must listen.
Threaten the morning not to come.
A comfort, a thread to hold and not wind in.
That you might take this to your resting place.

So I sit and think and fix this in words.
I realise, I’d swap each one, bit by bit, for your smile.
Clouds across skies, music through air.
Words can’t make what we have made.
What we make. Us. Together.

Balloons

Let it go, he said. and I did. I released my grip, it caught the wind and went.
We watched it together, he held my hand, a bulb of green, flailing white streamer, a sea of blue.
Wish it good luck he said. And I did. Better to let it go than let it die.

Stumbling home her arm in mine. Maybe her place tonight, don’t let this night fade out. I play the gentleman, of course I’ll walk you home. Lean on the frame of her doorway, just another drink. Tip-toe inside, fear no evil.

He hates seeing them go down, she said. Dishes washed, put in their place. Think he wishes he could hold on and go with it, she said. Her back turned. What do you mean? A smile, sad and brief. One day you’ll understand.

And when I leave early, the morning grey as my eyes, I know why he worked late.

Chrysalis

I stood and walked and didn’t look back.
I left you wrapped and curled like a child.
Covered in the leaves of this barren day.
I stand before the man who made all this.
Son of the skies and stars,
Son of the dust that collects on me.
Son of all that drift this land.

I held a chrysalis in his palm,
As a sea of change swept through the land.
No more harm he says, emerald waters cleanse and cure.
Dawn climbs from dark, grey sheds on mortal hands.

Some say they scared of change,
Some say they’ll just rearrange.
Get dressed up and play the game.
Time passes so quickly, voices become the same.

Encased in a sea of mist.
Covered in lime. Sank in brine.
I cared for you as if you were mine.
The voices of the living and the silence of the dead.
The smudged ink of things I should have said.

I hold a mirror to this barren land.
It swallows immediately all it sees.
It shows the shrinking of a boy, small and scared.
And the birth of a man, day after day, who tries to care.

Hello Trouble

Senile Child, smile at me.

Uncurl yourself, show me who you could have been.

Hello Trouble, I say, look at me.

You grip my hand as your child would yours.

You moan as your child might.

You've seen more days than I.

I will leave and love and live a life.

And my child will grip my hand as you once did.

I always wonder if its envy in your eyes.

The endless able-bodied lie.

If I clambered into your dreams, would you uncurl yourself.

Stand up and thank me for my stay.

Goodbye my trouble, you'd say, as you looked at me.

You'd turn serenely, and walk away.