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. 

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. 

Thomas the Rhymer

I loved her like..

I loved her the way the sun hit the city. 

How it's pink light burned 

On the symmetry of façades,

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. 

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.