Four Poems

Howling

Something feral,

Not quite wild

Passes between us

We tear each moment

Apart

A casual slaughter

An indifferent passion.

Consequences

We pack away

The board game

That was given to us

Play, in secret another game

The one where

Consequences

Are not imagined.

The one where

The rules are lost

Or are reinvented

At every move.

Holy

If desire is holy

We are a shrine

If sex is god

We are a trinity

If lust is a religion

Then it is an old one

If sin is real

We are done for.

Quilt

On that quilt

We refused to be quaint

Under it

We refused to be uncovered

Over it;

Hanged stars,

Drawn constellations,

Quartered moon.

Passion

Passion in many forms

We are idle as engines

Revving the counter

At amber

When red arrives

We fly

Tyres smoking

Guiltily

But always behind us.

Bus Stop

This bus stop

Is a metaphor,

For you going away from me

I check the timetable

For when you will return.

If you do not like this metaphor

There will be another one along shortly.