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The Essence.

The world has lights that make
you want to breathe in
and clean up your dusty soul

Blinding.

Finding constellations, learning
ways to read them, resisting temptations to burn them in a heap
on the front lawn

like so very, many times before.

Now you’re feeding your heart a three course dinner
Winning – you’re a winner and smiling proper, too

Unusual for you but I think I like it

Bottle some up for me.

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Untitled 

I see hope is radiating 

from your strong, highlighted cheekbones

Mirroring your fears like souvenirs

and all the strength that you broke

When you started mending nicely

And folk said you looked gamely, save the eyes 

That seep your secrets

What to’morra brings 

I’ll let you know a secret 

Wrap it up and keep it

It still bleeds deep within

You’ve got that look that could still a thousand heartbeats 

But you hear a banging in your ear

Losing more, without me

Don’t you see?

I’m your plastic millionaire 

 

The hold

You’re there

in those moments of space 

between the  places where white noise waits  

for silence.

But as the clock turns on

chiming time with a bird, and 

I find it harder to succumb 

to quietness

and feel you slip, between the 

cacophonous  cracks. 

Agrypnotic

It’s in the black, you visit me

As I cocoon, you emerge
and plague me like aching teeth

I dance – an ancient, wrapped for the afterlife

but there are no beautiful adornings here

Just skin and thoughts, naked and raw

In a tangle of sheets

The Journey to Pickled Mountain.

You are worn, dear Peter

And pained like the cries upon a battlefield

Where do they go? Growing intense – a mechanism under skin that twists in coiled movement 

I know the hurt.

Clock chimes 

Three, then six, then nine

Twelve 

Silent striking, inviting, I hear it calling 

Here come’th the hour

But you will not die today, dear Peter

Sweet Peter

You will not die today.

Unspoken

It’s hot and sticky – a viscous, Mumbai sunset 
complete with Bombay’s colours 

I heard it said that those smiles are the best

but yours, dressed here now in glistening sweat

beams like the sky of high noon

You’re California

and I, aware of my own London grey

am content to reply with Irish eyes, instead

The Agricultural Engineer

I have a story in an old shoe box
and I leave it to spin out
all the time

A heart ache framed in that trusty old-schooled ink and it bleeds
like a bruise
on tattooed thighs

I’m stood with a blush of pink insincerity
and i find that I cannot tell a lie

You see, like a bird
like a falcon way up high
and you breathe like a new born
swimming child

You teach
with the wisdom of an ancient rested soul
and I want to be near you all the time

There’s a key in the garden where you fall asleep at night
there’s a lock hidden there under
the chime

But the wind is howling haunted
and it leaves you feeling blind
and you can’t
remember how to tell the time

It’s written in the kitchen, right there underneath the clock
There’s a sink full of truths I can’t deny

But you walk through the hall in those dirty, old work boots
leaving marks on my floor and on my life

A sidewards smile holds a cigarette, alight

The dirty, honest dishes
left behind