Wednesday, 23 October 2013

Four Poems


Something feral,
Not quite wild

Passes between us

We tear each moment

A casual slaughter

An indifferent passion.


We pack away
The board game
That was given to us

Play, in secret another game

The one where
Are not imagined.

The one where
The rules are lost
Or are reinvented
At every move.


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.


On that quilt
We refused to be quaint

Under it
We refused to be uncovered

Over it;
Hanged stars,
Drawn constellations,
Quartered moon.


Passion in many forms
We are idle as engines

Revving the counter
At amber

When red arrives
We fly

Tyres smoking

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.

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