(Michelangelo): poem

Bodies intertwined like ivy

I told him he looked gorgeous

Bare chested and sprawled

content breathing in 5am purple skies

David in my bed;

marble and smiling

His red pen on leather complexion

a hushed and prickled skin

My hair strewn as confetti

on pillow cases:



‘Right back at ya’

he said, as if spitting out gum

‘back at ya’




Proper: poem

Projecting light on her face

she stood at the head of the desks

the top of the room

Announced the theme

of Greeks and their poetry

of performance, painting and philosophy

I strained to enlighten myself, desperate

to learn of customs, civilisation and culture

But was declined from high society

by mouth


Got caught up in her ‘O’s drawn out

from her throat like sucked string

Slipped over the surplus of ‘R’s

added in after giving over to gluttony

An ‘R’ must follow an ‘A’

‘drarmatic’, ‘clarssic’, she’s overdosed on arsenic

licks verbal diarrhea onto

white marble as she speaks

Not learnt to laugh in her pauses

not trained to smile in her speech


I keep my home in my mouth

chewing on words, each

syllable less important than the last

Talking in colour

always forecast for rain but

I think the way we speak’s perfect

top notch, bloody brilliant, first class




Chlorine: poem

At 10

I could not find comfort in chlorine

Its bleach burnt my nose

sat in my throat

I had to wear lycra layers

safety goggles, a peg to plug me up

Sat wrapped in damp towels

puckering on cold poolside

I got rough dry and left

hair tangled in sinus stinging mess

The water emptied and filled

the tiles mopped and swept


And I return, 8 years late

reflect in the cyanic depths

since I slept in deep sea dreaming

feet feeling smooth ceramic

Stirring these waters

easy as breathing

Enveloped in blue coating

like I wear my own skin

Letting light over my limbs

swirling gold coins, swim

out, dive down, and

let the chlorine in




Sixteen: poem

Take me back to sixteen

To falling





Take my organed ribs

play them;

those rollercoaster lungs

Sing jazz in my ears



The architect’s houses

we built for ourselves

live out the fantasy


of waking next to you

in white sheets



Cry for the perfection

Your face

the best I’d ever seen





These Paths: poem

I walk you

like you’re my own scar

know every mark

on each bone, far


away from smooth

pavement stone, cars

drowsing in their

distant drone, are


you feeling the tread

of my feet land

on worn-out rock,

boggy peat and


the itching of grass

on your legs, fine

but soft like your palm

and fingers in mine




Those Colours: poem

Those few weeks

your hand never left

an imprint in mine

Didn’t label ourselves

with those gestures

those few weeks

Too busy in long grass

under bridges

water at our feet

Laid me down

those few weeks

hair on bricks

hands in hair

against those high-topped walls, down

those fern-cracked steps, moss

under those fingers

on roots

on mud smeared skin

arms above heads

Gentle notes blown on bottles

gazes lingering on playing

smiles captured in necks

grinning towards leaves, green

against blue, and you,

golden under streetlights




Breathe: poem

I was hoping

to sit

with you in a time

when we’re not impressing

other people

or each other

with our soldier-like stances

marching the street

chin skywards


I was hoping to speak

in our own voices

not in the confidence

we both wear

round our shoulders

like coats

we put on

when it’s raining


Turn off our booming sonars

a pretence

to blur our dots

on the radar


Just touch fingers

not grab hands

Trace each other in figures of eight


Take off our masks

breathe each other in for a while