The sun did not rise today-
He pounced unannounced,
Shouldering his jealousy
Into the unguarded Earth.
He’d seen, you see,
How she seldom shied
From the lips of the breeze;
He’d noted too
The chiselled moon,
And how he’d come early,
Adorning the blue.
So as long as he might,
He kept his lover in sight,
Stifling her surface
With a cloying love bright.
Her grass he yellowed,
And my skin pinks,
Blushing until, reluctant,
Upstairs, I hear it through the walls
A monologue, it seems
Hers pitched so high
That is spears the muffle
I assume it’s a his–
Too low to detect, like a whalegram.
You can hear tears in her throat
But not the words.
Sad, heart, fucking.
Somebody has done this,
Definitely a body;
Only personable cruelty can elicit
Such pinpoint hate,
Nor thorny fate.
I carry thoughts round like a nuclear football.
All it would take, all it would take,
Would be a single sunglassed whisper,
Cupped to the ear to foil
Even then, I’d hesitate,
This is not the kind of loss whose dread
Diminshes when it to aery thinness spreads.
The most beautiful woman he’d seen,
Dead or alive
(Or, at the very least, top five).
From the wheel of his Cooper
He wanted to toot her,
To evoke winged Cupid
And have the blind boy shoot her.
He needed her like new tenants
Need a wireless router,
Would gladly be neutered
To denude of her of couture-
This goddess, this starlet,
Companion of his future,
Was a grown-ass adult,
Riding a scooter.
‘In a perfect world I would be perfect, world.’
Let’s talk long-term goals,
I mean really long-term,
Once the papery child has chewed the cud
And we’ve becked our metal ravens home to brood;
Once the five-day-week is ground to crud
And my neighbours reside round my longitude.
Then what will we do?
I suggest we create and love, love and create:
Sculpt towers to tower the empire state,
Write novels to crystallise human fate,
Paint portraits no honest heart could berate;
Eat fruits fed by oblivion’s river
And thank Earth for the time that you have with her.
I heard a rumour that the proper realms of poetry are Love and Death. Well, I’m only twenty two, so I won’t be talking about death. And I find myself under an encroaching suspicion that love operates in a similar manner to memory. When you remember an experience you are not remembering an experience. You’re recalling the latest recollection of an experience. Like a photograph of a photograph of a photograph. No matter how good the camera, you’re still haemorrhaging pixels. What if love is the same? You get one shot. And every subsequent love is a sketch of the first. The sketch may have been done in a steady hand, with a Blackwing on paper of 120gsm. But it’s a sketch nonetheless. It’s taken from a model.