About M
This side of
my heart, is
a landslide.
I collapsed
into your valley
hands and
crumbled
at your kiss.
What are feet?
But things that
move me closer
to you. Hands -
that come alive
to touch and melt
the tips of
mountainous
expectations.
You are the
summit of all
my hopes, the
pinnacle that I
pin all my lofty
love upon.
In Vein (About M)
Your name is written
on my rib cage.
It always has been,
echoing about my
lungs with every beat
of a heart that has now
been made whole.
Concealed under
the fleshy constraints
of life without you.
The scratching of
broken muscles begin
to smooth over,
life in love,
pumps into my veins.
What a difference,
a day made.
Brighter Mornings - Tom Williams.
Lips crack,
When you
shower kis-
ses on them,
then leave
them high
and dry in a
drought.
(Hearts cra-
ck like that too).
distraction
here again
empty of you
sober as Sunday
not rid, but missingwith a songless glass
empty of you
too ashamed
to leap down
from the shelf
like the bottles stacked up
in the shop across the road
soon to close
laying here, again, a pen
in my hand
and not you
drawing nudes
from blank pages
unclothing these thoughts
in a notebook - full - of you.
Oh La La! Thank you Editor.
Skipping Stones - (About M)
We mingle minds,
mottle everything
sensible with hues
of the ridiculous.
We fold into one
another, leaving
crease marks on
each other’s hopes.
We skip three steps,
and trip up on the
first. We skim over
everyone else,
like stones sent shooting
across a still pan pond.
We were never meant
to be conventional.
Why else would we collide,
the way we do?
The weight upon your kiss, ambiguous.
Thunder
Hollow me out,
leave my nerves
fraying on a
fast moving moment.
Prick, pummel and poke
at my integrity -
take my appetite, my sleep -
Hurl it off that railway bridge
where we first kissed.
Burst into my life,
demolish all previous priorities.
Conquer my happiness,
lay claim to my calm
play Triton with my thoughts,
thunder into my heart.
You’re in me now,
and the power play puppet show
goes on and on.
Everything hinged on a buzz,
a flash of recognition,
shaking fingers and thumb.
A modern age,
when face to face,
doesn’t mean all that much.
The Salesman
The heart is a secret place.
We speak and spend of it,
like we know what is hidden
in its depths. You give me
your heart, but it is just a
lump of flesh that you hand
over. The puzzle of it is in your
gut, or swirling around your
synapses. He never gave me
his heart, but an idea. The
idea of a pulse that beat
only for me. He is more
statue and stone, than
blood and bone.
Not Saying Your to Blame
Rose oils and melted
Wax are
Our mistake; there’s
Warmth
In my gratitude but I
Find no
Shelter in your reflection.Just
Me or you,
Me and you.
Like something burning
in my pocket.
Or a twitch,
and an itch
to the eye.
A poison
that settles like syrup,
temperatures rising high.
up, up, up.
We don’t stop,
only scrub, and rub, and snub
each other.
Cheers
We dance on the rim
of a glass.
Tipping back and
swinging into one
another.
Swigging looks over
the top,
letting the words
we are both thinking
fizz as it
hits the bottom.
