Saturday, 23 August 2014

2 New Poems

A Kiss Or Something

My American love, the stories we could
star in ice storm Boston harbour's blue,
in the pastiche patchwork of Sante Fe style
rooftop spectres and Highway 61 underpass sketches.

We could write tales in the rust red pine,
draw new shades on orange grove pyres,
in unison sing out rough folklore’s lyricbook,
pages scattered, torn in Nevada's wearing winter wind.

We could swim hymnal-spoke riverside,
length-stride of great men in footprints unfilled;
it would be the giving up, the molt of
rosary-tossed and spectacle-seeking rejections.

We could, we could, couldn't we?

After Hours

You find it in the whispers
of hushed-clatter Italian leather
in Tuesday torrents and half-shaven
Wednesday mirror morning, nothing
so fine as being close.

You find it in the vicious
deadened bus brake screen
cast of buzzing beer brand neon
in pockmarked late-early pizza
grease and plate paper stain windows.

I find it in the faint
scent of placard paint on
your lipstick traces, memoriam
of brick shavings and teargas
temperament you hold like a family broach-pin.

I find it in the cold
honeysuckle stick of November's
skipping rapids sunlight to the
Ikea shelving and anarchist cookbooks:
a sentiment we thought worth sharing.

No comments:

Post a Comment