Friday 28 October 2011

the kiss of life

the morning caress
of your kiss on my lips: a
double-caffeine shot.

The Moorgate Pret a Manger

Morning, first thing: they park up, merging
in dense, disordered lanes. A cup in hand
they drift off - few hang about - filing into

walkway traffic, through electric glass doors,
and up into turrets of juts and shards,
caffeine revving. Locked in this citadel,

the anchoring of order descends: high
tide stems. A long release breath of cushions
is sanctioned - an in-between stretch of space

where some wandering eyes dance to the crank
of speaker volume. Lunchtime, and the doors
are prised open like flood barriers. Set

free: a shoal frenzy swirls, feeds, fattens -
the top of the food chain. They carcass the shelves.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Inside, the air con is crocked; outside, the
wind is up and cups of dregs catch flight: torn
napkins wave like dying arms - or young hearts

fluttering. But the City's twice-daily
high-tide withstands it; the same spew sweeps them
in: shapes bobbing up against the till; eyes

eyeing-up queue jumps,
latching onto prosperous
currents, bleary-red.

Tuesday 25 October 2011

trafalgar square

I want that day, that
afternoon city
sun, that spray on the
wind; to know your kiss

is there where I found
you, your skirt alive
on the breeze, the sky
and your eyes the same

cocktail hue of blues;
the same fresh sight of
you - before the fog's
ice, before the earth's

tilt hostaged our warmth:
no harvested heat,
the duvet pulled from us in
the cold steel of night.

Thursday 20 October 2011

sherwood road

at night you are a mysterious girl
in a nightdress of leaves tied with wire,
draped in the mist of witching hour -
lurking behind sharp corners, where

spectral shadows descend from leafless
branches: the trees' free-spirited
bareness bearing down like drunken
eyes, mascara-laden; or wild, lusty

sirens urging me onto the rocks: sharp
flexing canines buried in the hanging
gloom of cliffs. This precarious cliff-walk
home, ill-omen swirling, like Macbeth's

return. I avert my eyes from your dark
and peripheral driftings, focus on the path:
the real, solid concrete; and finally,
wonderfully, feel the door resonate

behind my head, scrape the chain
into its sheath, palm my way through hallway
fog, and with a single electric twist bring
Mediterranean light to my skin - I feel

my shoulders sag like
contented hammocks.
she is dispelled to my dreams.

haiku

down the stones I claw
lurching on hind legs, morning
freeze on arched bare feet.

Poem

Adrenaline threading through nerves like beaded
Poison slow-glistening the barbed spider's
Threads; and then the percussive surge -
That metallic plucking of those strings somewhere
Deep, hollow, resonant; fear and joy in crescendo.

It's the always-pump
Of torrential performance,
Between tears and love.

Sunday 9 October 2011

Cloud-Snuggled Girl: A Sonnet

Where speed-flitting thought fizzed behind her eyes
I strained to match and mirror, synapses
Failing in reflex-inadequacies.

The ageing breezes of Autumn return
With the reflux of spinal memory,
Cities rusting in blue toxicity.

Silver, smooth, immaculate: she lay – the
Cloud-snuggled girl in the tabernacle –
Pettled, bedded behind the pulsing veil.

The dream consigned to cobweb, it re-sparks
And infiltrates – bluey-red tinder light –
Like waking to the exeunt that night

Of shadowy movement, and the door slam,
And the protracted sense of invasion.

Sonnet

Spilt time: of course we spilled over somewhat:
It was always intended, in hindsight.
Hiatus of friction-stubble on cheek,
Our tentative finger-brushes painting –
Dilating irises linger and flux
Before the safe-clasp rediscovery.

The platform’s parting-drift: dragging boot soles
Trailing off - adhesive sight-line severed
In the gathering chomps of momentum.
The gluey-remnants of fragrance and touch
Left to the elemental shower gush
To pick and scrape away – like nesting birds.

The fear of committing to spilt time: that
Just before moment from defintion.