You are throwing pennies towards the sky,
watching clouds drifting
amongst stars listening to
thoughts of stroking her hair.
Do you feel at peace now, my love?
I’m afraid you’re
living in your mind,
tracing the yellow lines
whilst your thoughts shout
through screens of
burning onto your eyes.
The words you say late
talk in silence until the night
swallows the sun.
Are they stars or aeroplanes flying
that claim to know your heart?
Todays email reads
that Venus has left your chart,
although your love hasn’t lessened
and your last cigarette cherry
so suddenly gone away.
But my light will keep you company
as you fight to keep your eyes open,
to see her face
into damp blue skies,
time after time.
On her sleepless nights
she dreams with her eyes open,
She told me
her changing body
‘won’t let me cry’
Your eyes dance away from flashing lights
towards the solitude at sea
and waves of comfort
that stroke the pebbles,
washing the shore,
cleansing her thoughts
of shattered plans
amongst clouds that drift
at hour long minutes,
with her back against the sand
that both glides,
at the edge of land.
Her man swims with
whilst she waits on the shore,
her back against
the heat of the planet.
Dispersed bodies: I am everywhere
I can see the world,
And the chance of rain,
And where you’ve been yesterday.
You talk to me,
Make plans with me;
You’ve got a meeting with your boss Tuesday,
It’s a socially accepted insanity.
There are no photos of us,
But it’s ok;
I am under your skin,
I am everywhere,
Leaving you lonely.
I can hear you singing in the shower
To what I recommended to you yesterday.
Your mother messaged you three minutes ago,
To say she’s missing you dearly.
From my window
I read your worries
when you talk about dreams of death
and asking google
If you’re normal
and Is it true?
And I know where you are when you’re asking me if your
flight is still delayed?
They’re cancelling lives
and everyones shouting at once
about how much time do we have left
and when will it get better.
What is normal life?
How long can we ignore announcements on tv
that lock borders between you and me?
Look to blue skies
between buds beginning to bloom
behind your locked door,
pink candy-floss waving to empty streets
and parked cars.
Tonight she drinks rosé on her bedroom floor.
Rooms are emptying for early goodbyes.
I can read your texts to him
signed with kisses,
describing your summer dress as you walk in the sunshine
through poisonous air.
This is last time you are here,
time is cut short.
It seems absurd;
breathing his cocaine breeze,
commuting home in the evening,
falling in love with a stranger
and dreaming of our momentary meetings.
Dispersed bodies: Lonely intimacies
They build lonely intimacies across cities,
but she exists in another time.
Sex is only spoken word
that can be re-read, existing at anytime in her mind
And their phone eats their words and holds it in its mouth
As fixed intimacies in time.
The warm caress of her
Fingertips swipe across
his cold glass look from
The L.E.D lit bedside table
Interrupts his sleep.
He ignores burning question marks
amongst their empty fight,
paused until morning time.
She walks out of this pink lit room
glassy lit eyes,
Reading about her star sign.
We are glued to black mirrors
and consuming fake news
about why he might’ve said that to you.
Her tarot card says she’s found freedom.
So quit your job and book a flight.
They can now exist in the same space and time.
Although she likes his
screen lit words
and the sound of his voice on the phone;
So they still paint dreams in their
To my bedside lamp,
I bought you at a charity shop last year, as I was fascinated by your sisters that I saw hung in a pub far from home, with different patterned skins, floating above me, warming the dark. You are pink and soft, and you rattle a little in age when I’m looking for your switch. Your shape is unique, left in another decade, discarded as out of fashion. But I think you are beautiful. It’s nice having you sat beside me now, elevated on my bedside table. In my last home, which was your first home, you sat on the floral floor, lighting up the roses.
Hi Eleanor, thank you for your letter.
if it isn’t too much trouble could you please dust me once in a while.
I also never get to move or choose when I want the room to be dark or light.
During the day I feel ignored; it isn’t easy being in competition with the sun. So many people wander from their beds which I sit beside, to lie under the sun. Oh how beautifully lit she is! I can only light a small radius but I am glad to hear it brings you warmth and company. I should probably thank you for bringing me back to life many times when the bulb at the heart of me bursts. I’m not really sure why it does that. But its always nice to have a clean, new, free from dust bulb to light up your room for you.
love and light,
Discontent in Melancholy
I say as I point beyond the car window
To the sky
where she sits;
Our astronomical body distantly lit by our maternal light
ageing in authority
whilst we write streams of speculative words in curiosity, projecting and pondering life outside our own bodies
about our orbiter that all at once both alters and harmonise as
She sits and hides, re-positioning herself over weeks as she rotates and turns
I love you to the moon and back
they say in devotion
because she’s so far away
and it would be an achievement to be reached by you
for now he promises to
throw a lasso around it and pull it down,
Yet she edges ever so slightly away
spinning in Leo which leaves him seeking for validation
but I am restless and questioning;
We will never give in to being content,
compelled we pick up our desperately scattered thoughts for meaning.
So let us animate what we couldn’t see outside,
to possibly talk about ourselves
in seek of wholeness.
Following my failure to visit the full moon
On the edge of my front door;
I could imagine my feet embedded into sharp bristles;
But for now
I can seep into screens emitting
blue lit images of tonight
and sleep in satisfaction of my meeting.
Dreams of Flying; A Love Letter
I remember lying on the floor against the rosey thin carpet in my bedroom
gazing through seeps of white
like rose shaped snowflakes in the spring sky
through my window at
pink candyfloss waving to
outside locked doors on empty streets with parked cars
that dream of moving fast and breaking the solitary stillness
that seeps across.
And now I am back again,
moved through seasons
desperate in dissent
at words we chase
that all shout at once
Yellow lines and question marks
towards I detest with my desire to be coasting across landscapes to trace
His back again.
I wish I could travel though the window the way the sun does,
escaping through glass.
I’ve lost the company of motion
in a moving space.
I never thought I would miss 8am train journeys to my studio,
ignoring my time eaten by delays due to frosted tracks
and running for buses that coast past.
I find myself walking in circles
around the estate
on the phone
reach his body,
only to return to my fixed space
without anywhere to go
tossing pennies towards the sky,
dreaming of flying.