Swan Song

How did it end?
The sing—, ring—, clinging
to you with so much zest;
the liv—, lov—, leaning
on you with all my beating chest:
how did it end?

One night on a balcony,
one afternoon in a gallery,
one morning at a red light
(when I forgot to buy flowers)
maybe.

How did it end?
A thousand little kisses,
a million (in)significant days,
a hundred missed smiles,
a dozen burned bridges:
how did it end?

My heart will hold you forever,
remember you as my favourite sin:
how did it end, how did it begin?

Nocturne

She glides so quietly through dreams,
spreads her colourful wings gracefully:
brush strokes for a work of art.
Children’s footsteps follow her with ease
as she circles these hibernal fields
carrying all their wishes in her heart
and all their sorrows in her song.
Infinite and endless is her mind,
her love as universal as it is kind,
forever forgiving for that is her truth:
bring her sadness and she will soothe.
Find her at night but leave her at dawn,
meet her at morn and she will move on.

Bullet

The drowsy waves collapsing against the shore lull
me into forgetting the buckling bay behind
me, and its pallid noises coagulating against my skull:
a hopeful army of sunbeams marching in forever so inclined
to proclaim tomorrow against all my desires
to let this be my end, final, relentless and unkind.
With the wish to perish in darkness before tonight expires,
sand cuts through my soul like splinters through fingertips –
the truth disguised as freeing pain slowly transpires –
I raise the barrel to forge my own lunar eclipse.
An opaque world oscillates around me in hazes of auroral blue:
hovering, in the distance, washed out lights of ships.
What is this existence if not also the possibility to eschew
its own self: my soul into you, dear world, I imbue.

Glimpses

She swirls her finger around the chanting bottleneck:
I don’t know where we end.
She looks at the sunbeam crackling in her ring:
I don’t know where we begin.

It’s raining colours around us
through sunglasses, through tree leaves,
through the windows of the 58 bus.

She raises her head, slowly, and squints:
her eyes a dozen meadows of green.
She lifts her bottle, takes a sip of lemonade:
her sigh a dozen serenades.

It’s raining colours around us
through sunglasses, through tree leaves,
as she vanishes with the 58 bus.

Totem

Down the abyss, storming, over rocks, rushing,
towards the waves crushing the cliff
with the force of a thousand armies:
I gaze from otherwhere.

I contemplated a man from Paris once, sitting,
head between hands on knees, sobbing,
on a metal chair by the international terminal:
I orchestrate from everywhere.

Across cheeks, blushing, over eyes, wandering,
towards the dreams palpitating against reality
with the force of a thousand prophets:
I vivify from nowhere.

I contemplated a woman from St Louis once, sitting,
eating a slice of pumpkin pie, laughing,
on a Davenport in the lounge of her friend:
I dance from evermore.

The Hollows

Here, the uneasy nothingness of fingers intertwined,
there, the heavy evaporation of lips locked,
always the swinging oblivion of thoughts dreamed,
forever the towering ravage of feelings seduced —
surrounded by lightning and leaves spinning out of reach
we would never find cover if we started running.
Here, the dripping raindrops bursting into our blinded eyes
there, the haunting harmony of washed out worlds —
we have always been: we will never be.

Vermilion

They move lightly across the desert plane.
They have small clouds of sand dancing underneath their wings like carefree children
and ludic dust whirling in sunbeams around them.

Here, the good outweighs the bad tenfold,
rainbows kept in drops of water carried on their feathers
like dots of happiness layered over an unsuspecting embrace.

They move lightly across the desert plane.
They whisper their songs as if outsiders eavesdropping would take them away
and they sing them proudly into each other’s ears.

Here, the good outweighs the bad tenfold,
like sunbeams shining through clouds into drops of water
when they move lightly across the desert plane.

Stone Skipping

What was, now isn’t — what will be, not yet.
The taste of perishing cold on your lips and nothing
else. Uncomfortable comforting
laughter at the surrealism of ourselves.
This is too… not close enough.
I’m looking at the future through breathed upon glass,
a shadow on the other side of this
liminal space of slivered possibilities.
Perhaps in a hundred sunsets the glass will be clear
and this side the faded memory we’d like it to be.

Acceleration

There are splinters of conversations in my fingertips.
I try to pull them out, all I catch
is the dust of crumbled futures.
It’s a blue smile in the distance.
It’s a pair of cartoon character socks, books,
a Christmas ale bottle.

I see you smiling in pictures taken long after
we ended
(I’m still not sure we ever began)
and part of me rejoices
and part of me cries
(the second part is much larger).
You took part of me with you,
you left no part of you with me.

There are splinters of conversations in my fingertips.
I try to pull them out, all I catch
is the cinder of spent pasts.
It’s a favourite album on mute.
It’s a present still wrapped, candles,
a massage oil bottle.

I see you smiling in pictures taken long after
we ended
(I’m still not sure we ever began)
and part of me recjoices
and part of me cries
(both parts will eventually fade).
You took part of me with you,
you left no part of you with me.

Philophobia

An oddly-shaped melancholic heart hovers in the middle of the room
while somewhere else, not too far away, glass is breaking
to let life in, or take it away once and for all.
Strange cocktails they forgot to cover in chocolate
cost only a piece of your soul – another piece for a straw.

Alongside the rail tracks where they have no coffee
or even tea but nice human luxuries and an unknown airline
that’s the best one in the world. Walk eastwards
to the unwanted city and westwards to the homeless city.

Love is a lonely constant in life:
we get up one morning and nothing’s changed
except our eyes that look upon this world.
From there on further, farther,
where it all suddenly stops and rewinds.

To the ocean floor two miles out of Iceland,
we’ll hide deep inside. Glaring whites recall
the shades of grey donated by a poet long gone.
Princess is gone and there’s no Joy.

Swindon Railway Station

The railway station in Swindon, a large town midway between Cardiff and London.