Saturday, 27 October 2012

Soho

The moon bursts its varicose yoke
On clouds like winter thin skin,
Spilling nutrients across the
Frostbitten sky. Her vitamins
Bounce on the plaster-glass streets
On the jagged perfect faces
Through a beer-stained breeze.
Thunder-light renders neon
That dresses the night in sugarcane. 

Thursday, 25 October 2012

Exposure

Memories like tongues leave licks, imprints,
Liquids on our freckled hearts.
We must dry undressed in the frosted sun,
Bleach like film and scorch our silhouettes;
Melt chiaroscuro, let the polychrome run. 

Thursday, 18 October 2012

Monday, 8 October 2012

I loved her like..


I loved her the way the sun hit the city. 
How it's pink light burned 
On the symmetry of fa├žades,
The boiling hole in the clouds 
Where my eyes met the white heat of my heart. 

I loved her with the music of water 
From the wind on rainy pavements. 
I loved her like a furious pallete 
Of acrylics, the colour of words 
On my ethanol tongue. 

I loved her like a whisky, 
A fire of richness on my lips. 
I wanted to drink from her slowly, 
To swallow her malt age 
In the damp and the dark, 
To feel her copper waters drench 
The dry earth of my mouth, 
And warm my lungs with 
The after-taste of her flames.

A Lyric (For Leonard Cohen)


You are the image of my beauty.
(You thought you had me
But here is my wisdom, my honesty).
I feed on lyric, and wash your face
In the waters of my torpored eyes,
Because you to me are a cityscape
The ruggedness of industry
You inflame horizons in your achievements.
Whatever disgusts me about me
Is cured by the facts of your beauty
The crooked architecture
That bends under the sadness
In your shoulders.
If sunlight was music
Your voice would notate it
In its pitch-perfect brokenness.
Your anger makes your suppleness
Dangerous.  
Your bluntness kills.
You cry tears that burn.
You kiss with a mouth laced in acid. 
Your eyes are burst fruits
Weeping daylight's fluids.
You are the image of my beauty. 

Thursday, 4 October 2012

Half an hour on the Heath


Bricks that in the rain
Are stained claret red.
Cocaine powdered clouds pout
Across a chalk sky of queue-ball blue.
The wind traces it's kisses cold
Like a girlfriend's October skin.

Sparks of burned petals break
Into a flirtatious surf
From the oil-rooted
Muscles of the branches.
Magpies shoot flight-paths in the rough
Uniformed officers mapping the grasses.