Dream Catch Her

Dream Catch Her

“What are men to rocks and mountains?”

The disillusioned know

“we do not suffer by accident”.

So damn these feet, damn unsteadiness

from these damn dreams falling through your damn arms,

I’ll be damned if this is nostalgia,

damn these losses, damn this love so wrong

to love myself through blind corners,

damn laughter, damn sleep,

damn fantasy, damn control,

I want both

I miss it all.

Taste of Heaven

Taste of Heaven

Don’t kid yourself,

this barely ruffled my feathers,

my faith belongs

to the way the wind

strokes between my open wings

with nerves left trembling,

but sometimes even wild things

rest for a while

and still the world

has ample love to go around.

All creatures adapt to the changing seasons

and these sharp claws

would be constrained

by an existence in captivity,

a birds eye view is only bestowed

to those blessed to be free

and I was born an untamed spirit

touching everything

and nobody.

Saving Daylight

Saving Daylight

Sunshine spreads love to this skin,

melting milkshakes

with the innocence of children,

whilst the warm breeze,

collecting curls of autumn leaves,

becomes a bed for skinny lovers

soft enough to sleep on.

Do they detect the change in weather?

Do they know what’s to come?

This week the magazine headline

presents six tips

to change your life.

Number one is

Feel Disturbed’

‘It’s discombobulating’,

the old lady thinks to herself

as she sits at the wrong table

and children eat their fingers.

Dream Wrapping

Dream Wrapping

Opening the card, it reads

‘Happy Christmas, love Santa’,

by double figures, means

‘It’s Christmas, from Mum and Dad’,

declining to seventeen’s

‘Christmas. Mum.’

And you were what was left

of pass the parcel,

layers peeled away,

and in all the excitement

of what you could have been

they saw not what you were,

the suspicious package

in a neglected nativity scene.

Left wrapped

to re-use next Christmas,

left wrapped

to keep warm in winter,

to dress the body modest,

or just for a while,

to stabilise the bones

bubble-wrapped in a box marked ‘FRAGILE’

then set alight to smoke,

breathing in the sticky sweet tobacco,

vacuum-packed for a fresher death,

the little matchstick girl

takes her last breath

and wakes up,

wrapped in your arms.

Hard Candy

Hard Candy

You are the perfect scoop

of chocolate ice cream,

a sphere

broken only by a spoon

softly slicing a part of you

to my softly parted lips,

a lifetime on my hips

sacrificed to your succulence.

You are the moment

milk meets coffee,

melting my bitter taste

for every miracle day

you are still mine in the morning.

You taste like cinnamon buns,

contours of currants

fresh from the oven,

one hundred and seventy Celsius

and clothed in caramelised sugar,

I couldn’t wait for you to cool.

You are the hypnotic grip

of the Demon Headmaster

when I haven’t done my homework,

holding me back after class

until the heat between these pages

could burn a hole to Hell.

One two three, one two three,

if love is to dance

then our drug is the waltz,

undressed till I’m dizzy,

on a bed of diamonds

we become the disassembled finale.