For those bipolar in their affections
First
We catch eyes like a match to fire,
dish out hands that tingle,
linger,
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.
Then
The immersion-
quasi-nurturing-
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.
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