Saturday 12 April 2014


For those bipolar in their affections


We catch eyes like a match to fire,
dish out hands that tingle,
on the smalls of backs.

Seashells open and wetten, 
Driftwood stiffens with blood.

                                                       (do you catch my drift?)

A whole sea
where the slightest ripple 

of a cheek-twitch, a tongue-flick, 
makes waves.


The immersion-
almost damning.

We flebb and ‘oh!’
and grind til slow
in the cradling orange glow,
mischievous in its fleeting hold.

The moment smiles at us like a child burning ants, 

knowing that they look at the light and think it profound.

And finally

It’s like a favourite word backwards. 
Morning dullness
exposes cartoon boxers,
yellowing teeth,

football posters.
We are struck by a stomach-ache,
a bad memory in the groin.
The bed that was once the antithesis of time 

is now mortal
with springs poking out. 


(As if) on the edge of a cliff, reading a love-letter

The paper crackles
as it bends and straightens
as the corners turn in on themselves, 

submit in a violent flow.

My hair covers my face
 -like reeds before a pool- 
obstructing the view.

Wailing gales blow centuries away, 
there is only one present.

And I could be anyone.
I could be grieved with passion 

with heathers scratching my ankles,
crouching down amongst them, 
hearing my chest pump,
pressing my red-cold fingers against the paper
(dirty nails).

Each word stirs me.

I could be...
on the edge of a cliff,
the wild sea beneath,
grey sky above,
gulls like alarms, 

vanilla-smell of yellow gorse.

And I feel the paper 
against my cheek 
as I kiss its texture, 
kiss it into me,
and I think of myself 
as not myself
but as the sea.