Teacups.

Teacups.

Those nights together, lying
around the room like clumsily
Placed cushions, legs dangling from
The armchairs, rain hammering,
Steam rising.

Was I there?

I don’t remember anything but the fire,
laughter and the niggling
Of contentment through my body.

I was there,yes.

And you were too
I’m sure; they wore white plimsoll shoes-
I’d kept my hat on. She asked and
You glowed
And we rambled-
Everything and nothing to discuss.

These things I see and feel and love and lose.
Once full,
half drank,
Now empty teacups.

Bedtime Story

It starts with a murmur,
The misspelling of a four letter word,
A declaration that you cant be heard.
The silence that follows,
Nothing moves in the dark,
No dim light flickers, no ringing
Found in a hollow heart.
And then when light comes filling in-
Those fragile rays of truth. Your
Mouth spilling lie after lie
After lie. White and black and
Colourless. Quiet fiction to
Please an easy nation, help her
Rest. Only to wake in turmoil
And wonder if its for the best
To let a lying heart and
Unchanged mind live on her land,
Her soil.

The Western Man's Need To Cry

He shares things with me.
He wants me to know where he grew up,
where his family lived,
what childhood places of joy existed when he was young.
Before, this desire of his would have meant
something deep and beautiful,
displayed a need to reveal and have me
appreciate the things that matter to him,
an invitation of sorts into his life.
But now,
Now, this invitation can be perceived
as a mere indulgence in his own perception of himself and who he is.

However perhaps that is the most cynical way to look at him.
He has saved me, and I him,
in the darkness of night,
when we lay,
worlds apart,
in some kind of despair,
with only language to comfort,
words so desperately needed to be heard.
A poignant love affair of sorts
That one looks back on while lines crease
Their face. The things that are,
And were.

Button Holes

Is it alright now to ask
Or is it better if I don’t?
You know I wont hear
Your reply. Ill just remember
Your breath in my ear,
Uncontrollable urges to smile.
We can sit and talk a while;
“Do you think-?” “Are you-?”
“Can we -?”But inflections they
Pass. Words always fail,
Breath it leaves a gap
For one more broken sentence;
What it was I meant.
I could study the buttons on your
Shirt, so easy to undo. Your shoes
Could lie on my floor. I could lie
Knowing, nakedness showing,
That I got under your clothes,
But not your skin.
There’ll be no exchange.
No body for conversation.

For Emer

"And oh, to be in France.." she sighs.

Aren't we?

I can see the little parisan cafe
umbrellas from here,the mass of curls
hiding a face,trapped beneath a red beret.
Can hear the Seine lapping quietly in the
distance,see us smoking long thin
cigarettes out the windows of a taxi.
Discussing the navy A line striped skirt
you bought that doesnt match the shade
of cream in your top. I can hear me
frown, see you laugh, catching glimpses
of air.
Realising that life, anywhere, can have that
je ne sais quoi.
We can make our France right here.

Stay away

Stay away you, with the shining eyes;
Your head bent but still able to see. Look
At the ground, the sky-look anywhere
But at me. Because men like you, I think,
I know, are fair and few between.

Stay away you with the dangerous tongue,
Don’t come too near. I know you don’t mean
To but when I hear you speak, I have the urge
To run from this body to another- or into your
Warm breath just
Disappear.

Stay away you with the cold touch,
I have felt you burn, have lingered in your arms
So much that you have pushed me away. I don’t
Blame you as such-but-If you have nothing to say
Then stay away you with the fickle heart,
The shining eyes,
Stay away.

Hibernation

The cold is hanging in the air;
In your eyes. Something glimmers
That is not you and I see my breath
Before me- Proof of life and a sign of
The time that has passed and stands between
Us.
I look but it is hidden;
Your heart.
In hibernation.