i put on the brave face
and go about the mend.

yet still
the nightly nightmare brink,
the daily morning panic shrink

as i go around the bend.
and you,

a spectral lover in the sheets.
not here, not there,

again.

my compass needle,
skewed.

my will to love,
gargantuan

and true.

this fountain, crowned

with summer's regal splendour,

sputters on our bench.

in the shade of birds

fluttering as a sari in breeze,

you fan lashes

over impossible eyes.

watermelon bright, we go

meandering the locks

to aforetime

whilst i

slant up my maps,

tacked to plot the skies,

and am thankful

for the clarity

of our polite englishness.

and what of that constant moon,
thigh-white and breast-full?

and the prodigal mariner
adrift in search of sweet olde shores,

vexed by the springs and neaps
of seasonal tides?

our poetry is writ,
shimmering
in their relentless waters.

Clissold.

but what it is,
that salmon pink silk,

layed soft upon ripples.
twists up, orange-like

through jet-stream
rippings, butter blue

as perforations
in the clouds.

the mercury of seasons.

my map,
unraveled.

in its middle
was she there,
maiden of the globes.

her rock, sounding out
on the ice,
did unlock this city,

slowly,
like a breath.

caught in a cherub’s
compass gust,

blows me hither,
blows me thither.

till the clouds roll over
in our cups

till the tingle in your tooth
and its tinkle

on the china
till the grains of demerara are

quicksand in the sink
till then i sing

till then i think
that the scarcity of love makes a mockery of all endeavour.

i was born today

into a world i had created

in past sleep somehow

emerging suddenly from the deep

warm depths of a womb

that was yours, ours (now

defunct). and barren was i

and dry as these lips and cracked

and raw. a sour umbilical

hacked with rust and blunt

lay heavy on the floor

among the detritus of

words (also ours, once)

of this, this

so-called poetry.

I crossed the river to see you.
Wild daffodils scattered the banks,
dotted the verge with evensong.

Under soupy clouds,
sagging with the weight of March,
we waited, hands clasped,
for them to burst.

this orange boy
on his orange bicycle.
lady lollipop. stop.

what, then, of this -

sliced in two halves -

a bloated grapefruit

afloat in a jar?

its sweet pinkish

flesh i mistook from afar

to be none other than that

of your great, swollen heart.

could you, my darling

before two bottles

of wine

take my hand and

hold it good

then close the door

and kiss me tired?

i really hope

that you would.

O

- against which

there rake

branches

that rust

and grate

into

frayed ringlet

curls upon

curls

across midnight

floor-board

slats

as cork or

chalk is

smudged

upon,

against or

on

which - this

stretch of

indigo

sheen - with

a cellophane

pallor

that gleams

as virgin tomb-

stones

of marble;

then hammer.

then chisel.

then name.

this bough-like arm is a man’s
clasped ’cross your
back.

the cellist strikes
his pose;

makes to creaking
strums as in manic
throes

of a furore, gentle struck,
framed in flickers of you

spitting golden blue hum
and plucked one by
one

through blizzards of spray,
as the bow’s

unfastened strings
snap from lash to
lash

and silently thrash
at this

arm, bough-like,
this man’s,
clasped.

this was the message:

it’s only a paper
moon. so

i aimed my chin
up, to

the bobbing Chin-
ese lantern

and watched
the pallid, frail turn-
ing sur-

face cur-
ling in-
ward; a burnt,

and crum-
bled

heap.

and so it was!, i learnt.

A Silver Birch

stood alone and shunned by huddles
of bigger trees and rugby boys,
wilts slow the light in glinting puddles
with hollow drips of penny coins.

this silver birch of peeling skin,
this sinking feeling sinking in;
swells wide your lacuna then; and
you - its confused denizen -

besmirched, befuddled and all too
parched
will lap the white right from the pool
and lay thee down ’til blooming
March,

from deep below the sodden earth
return the embers to your hearth.

They’re her{e} we’re
seen no Th’ear{d}.

or something e.e. might
have tried.

She's with she’s bright carat.
The brides

to be. Destined for a life
of docile

steam-pressed hushes in
nouveau style,

caught on camera
trawling down
the
aisle.

i cleave
open your breasts
with a lick

quick to the lip
upper and inner

for the
star-broken roses
of blood blister flesh

arrow fletched flecks
freckles, yes

and your sweat beads
buds of winter frost-
ed

wide sprouted
specks.

----------------------------------------

je fends
ta poitrine ouverte.
un coup de langue

vite à la lèvre
du haut en bas

pour les
roses écrasées, étoiles
de chair

sanglant, moucheté des flèches.
tes taches de rousseur

et tes gouttes de sueur
sont des boutons et des grains
givrés d’hiver,

intercalés sous ta peau,
germant partout.

a cracked blue sky
peeps sleepy from

your crescent moons
watches boats come and go

with the tides to and fro
waxes slowly into its

first queue
you,
ey!,
are
tea.
(s)ea(s)
are

swashing around the pot bone-
china frail and pale as water

on petals when the rose asked
what the morning’d brought her

ripples of you in milky dew
trembles my cup and saucer.

--------------------------------------

un ciel de bleu cassé
jette son oeil somnolent

aux lunes croissantes
(venants, allants - les barges

sur la marée, de long en large)
fleurissent lentement jusqu’au

premier coup
qu’on aurait eu
(ah
oui – le moment ephém)ère
le thé
clapote dans le pot, ma thière
en porcelaine fine et précaire

comme la goutte sur la peau de rose
qui demande ce que l’matin propose

des frissons de toi à la rosée laiteuse
tremblant ma soucoupe sous ta tasse
hereuse.

i
stretchily leant on the armrest
this morning, over
snarling a sneeze back into its
nasal pouch to let erupt all over
the pillow
in an outside morning stew
billowing the hilltops.

elsewhere on the morrow
there was a heavy fog over
berrylands. when i passed,
ghostly trees wheezed through
with ugly gusts of silhouette
noose vine; ignoring
icily the hanging man
twitch of mine, in these
leggy polyester spasms
from cold or
maybe nervousness.

it smelt in the carriage as
though my first day at school
puking in the sink
because
i can’t tie my shoelaces, sir,
and, oh, i’ll never ever learn.

so i have velcro straps instead
where the noose vine would
once
hiss and bore sinuously
its plastic-tooth-tips
through
lubber fumble fingers and
holes of leathery doubt
tripping me all over and out
in the gravelly schoolyard mud pit
where swatches were smashed
and my ears burned.

it was good, then, when i
-strapped to the nines-
squelched through the mire to
line up tall with the bell and
the boys.
we scoffed our apples loud
all the way to assembly
where a bigger lad ate his boogers.
i rubbed my muddy fuzz bits together
and learnt this 'to be proud'.

Sea Myth

Awe throes in sea myth
hasten me. {Oh} how I try!

Thy mist whereon,
thereon thy swim

to
a hermit yet {un}shown

and a
heteronym wish{ed} at.

I am
Rose{mary}
or Thyme.