Tuesday, 16 September 2014


I'm lying in my underwear, thin
film of sweat and the heavy
breath makes a wave
through my window.  
From where I lie the trees
are upside down, morning 
masturbation with the sigh 
of a season's arrival. 
Spring is here 
to perform open heart surgery.
From where I lie (on the trampoline
this time) the grass ripples 
like a body beneath me. 
The blood in my eyelids
cocoons my vision, and I can see 
the birds. I can see their wings.
I run for the train 
like water down the drain, I fly 
on baked pavement and breathe
with the newness of it all.
I'm standing
in a new-home dream, my hands
cradle your milkshake skull it's a 
quiet gathering 
under my eyelids, tonight. 
Wind rips through my bedroom
and upends my heartbeat, jawline
buzzing with the second coming.
From where I lie (underwater 
this time) I find myself thinking
of teeth and tongues, I'm a stranger
perhaps, to the want.
Soaked to the bone with spring on
my breath I find myself feeling
the weather in my head, and I savour the seconds 
of knowing / not knowing
anything. From where I lie
(in my head, all the time)
I'm listening to the snap crackle
of oil in a pan and the steady
thock of an onion chop, 
the grainy whispers of TV sitcoms
and the water wind-chime of wine
filling my mum's glass, the trees 
whispering to each other and I find
myself feeling the house in my lungs 
and the house,
it breathes beneath me.