They say red and yellow tempt appetite,
this fire of peppers, the warning of chillis;
likewise blue suggests the soft protest of
beachside sherbets that never want you to leave,
rather than the terror of the tempest.
But who can say for certain
what the fruit tastes like
until the first bite?
only so many
bodies of blood. at midday,
they dream of oceans.
The footsteps that we make
impressions of ourselves
No numbers can predict, nor prophet can foresee
how others, having come across the shadows of our feet
will see them.
A light step, a layabout;
a heavy step, a guilty heart,
a misstep righted late,
a stride reversed in hate;
those fearful shallow scuffs of toes
I sketch in dust each day.
Oh, we may own the footsteps now,
but they will own the soil.
the most primal shade
in the backs of our eyelids,
the world of the womb.
They were frantic,
searching and scouring seas,
scanning the unspeakable secrets scrawled
on diary pages. They put up posters
on every street, on every shiftless day,
for it seemed to them, at least
that they were missing a dog.
She was out there
in the forests, frolicking,
in the fae fields, in frigid frost
that wished now to be found,
to capture, and to bring home.
tucked away like waste,
structural art of nature,
Books of poetry
lie in hiding under the sheets,
persecuted for heresy,
for their scraps of solitary truths,
browned and crispy with age and fearful fingers,
unread, unopened, unseen, for
being unfair, being personal
And outside the sound of empty pages
flurries to the wild amusement
of a hard and shiny crowd.
We will never know enough,
taking knowledge as a hobby, as a species,
just to pass the time
until our next war,
like digitalised automated self-driving tanks
rolling through the wasteland
with the excess capacity.
It isn’t so hard to be kind.
The way the boxes put it,
it seems impossible:
a spring cleaning
of a century-old house,
of vices and vengeance and
endless mountains of clutter
in the cupboard, in your mind,
But boxes just box us.
There are things on shelves, too.
The mantelpiece. Atop the printer.
Outside, where a wire traps passing-by birds.
Inside, where a silence traps passing-by friends.
Eventually, you can take it away,
piece by piece.
The misanthrope’s favourite cafe
was a strategically-located hideout
It was whittled and worn,
washed and watered with plants
that were trimmed on the daily.
It was metal doors, wooden interiors
weaved together like a grandmother’s quilt
for a baby abroad in the winter time.
a shot of espresso, a cloud crafted from foam,
with a bell that would tinkle
in unobtrusive welcome and
a barista that remembered his order.