Thursday, 1 October 2009


This, unknown to me
has crippled the glass.
A shard, benign in texture,
soft to the lips,
has embedded it’s smell
on black brushed fur.

Oh, this dull ache,
rich with puzzled steam,
releases a haze, an image of you.
Screaming to be true,
he struggles through suits
and frozen images.

Send me your smell,
pocket it, envelope it and
lick the neck of a picture postcard.
You seem so shy, by and by,
writhing with fools
happy again, playing by Canadian rules.

To taste your skin,
akin to the skier’s pillow
is all the eye can muster,
all seeing, all sleeping, all weeping.
Eat away at the moon dear wolf,
bring me a brooch of moon rock.

I cannot beg Captain,
instead, I shall suffer the voice
of a mute. Acute senses
fresh but dead grow through
cracked, white plaster.
An Eton Mess.

It be better that you
rush upon this blade,
than enter the circle with
fear in your heart.
How do you enter?
With perfect love, and perfect trust.

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