How do I say I love you?

How do I write it?

The words to stand so tall.

Tell me, love, the words,

So I can write it all.

To try, I’d come undone;

If you asked for light,

I would burn

To hold the Sun.

Fluttering weakly in the breeze

Left in the wake of the train's passing,

George's proud flag hung limp

From the pole,

Weathered and worn,

Like a tired old soul.


It's procurement no doubt,

was a misplaced, ill-thought out

statement of pride,

A belligerent shout

At the fresh-off-the-boat,

Here for the so-called ride.


The flag was once clear,

But Britannia's grey skies had

Poured down their drink,

Washing the colours,

Calming the passion,

From red into pink.


The train swept past,

It's multicultural seats

Brimming in rainbow hues,

As the punters sped

To the proud parade

Of the minority few.


They saluted the flag,

Laughter from lipstick,

Teasing it's impotence,

As the hated flag

Unexpectedly praised

Their innocence.


The train traveled on,

Past gardens like embassy roofs,

Displaying flags in retort;

Their bright bold colours

From every shore

Joined in support.


No tears for poor George,

Confused in his ways,

Run up a flagpole to fall and decay.

So sad to see, thought Union Jack,

As he flew with his friends

And waved at the track.

I turned up on time today;
Washed, and dressed, and brushed.
Taking my time, not in a rush.

The clock struck as I walked in;
Calm, and poised, and steady;
My plan's drawn up, I'm ready.

It's been a while since I walked out;
Hours of rage, and hate
Vying to make me break;

Clutching at friend-shaped hands
Too sad, too helpless to
Help me make it through.

The clock strikes behind me;
Tension, and trapped fears
Ascend to bring me once again to tears.

I...
                                       [slow to a crawl]
I...
                                       [come to a halt]
I...
                                       [a nervous tick, tock.]

As time screams at me to run;
I'm frozen, statue, stasis,
As I stare into the abyss.

I'm back to myself, I think,
And not much more, before
Smashing my day on the floor.

The clock
Continues
Regardless...

The boy ran through the fields,
His kite blazing like a comet
In the hot summer of yesterday.
Flying through the tall grass,
An open mouth, a smile held fast,
He danced, and leaped, and span away;
Safe in youth and come what may.

The day moves on.

The wind swept hard across the fields,
The kite bucking against the strain,
A twist and tear in the summer day.
The boy turned, distraught,
To watch his youth fall in thought.
He frowned, and wept, and turned away;
The kite lay broken amongst the hay.

The day moves on.

He turned to home, a sad retreat,
Replacing his steps along the path
He carved across the summer day.
A bird flies across the run,
Feathers flirting in the sun.
He turns and runs, a smile again,
And doesn’t see the hidden pain.

The day moves on.

A flying foot is sliced and pierced,
A scream of pain splits the fields
And the bird flies so fast away.
The discarded wire, the ill placed thought,
With no care for what it’s caught,
Leaves years of scars for a man to pay
And dream the loss of yesterday.

The warm cocoon breaks,

Spilling a tired body onto the floor.

Panicked, I hurtle to the door.

I kneel before my God

And spill my prayer of meat

On feet, body, crown and seat.

Clutching my saviour,

I draw a ragged breath,

Pleading, demanding for death.

The storm abates its tired refrain.

I rest my head against the wall.

I'm sure I swear "never again",

And back to sleep I fall.

As his feet step from the door,

His pace begins to stretch

From distance to time;

Each planted foot an hour

I don't get to see.


As his heel strikes the floor,

My brain begins the clock

From now until then;

Each hour a lifetime

I don't get to have.


Maybe just a little more;

Is that my avarice again?

Endlessly grasping

For my smaller hand

To spin back to a time

I don't get to keep.


It's not for keeping score;

Though at the start...

No matter,

That time has gone;

Poignant regrets

I don't get to think.


The years become a war

Between now and then,

Image and reality,

A mountain from a pebble

I don't get to miss.


How time flies.


As I close the door,

I lock away my thoughts;

Tuck them away

For twelve long days

Until the doorbell rings,

And there he is;

My son I get to have.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

My eyelids are glued shut. This can’t be right,
It’s not like I had much to drink last night.
Just a glass or two of much needed blood,
A sip to stop the ever-growing flood
Of bills and work and more bills and more work.

Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.

The soft bed digs gravestones into my back;
A dull fire, a gentle kick, a boneless crack.
An itch starts on my side and crawls down low.
My fingers claw where my shoulder can’t go.
Left and right and left.
Stop.
The pain again.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

There’s a monster in the mirror.
Canyons of worry crease a trapped youth
Too tired to care
About the red-eyed, bearded, fat demon
Caught in the glaring stare.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Spits of blood and white ocean spray
Strike the porcelain, scrubbed away
By the force of released denial;
A genie leaving a white plastic bottle.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Tingly.

There’s a lie in my mouth.
A denial of advancing age,
A bulwark to encroaching disease
Set against rotten cores.

There’s a lie in my mouth.

I try not to care.

The waterfall washes away the ache
In a cascade of warmth. The lake
At my feet fills with white foamy hills
Surrounding a naked giant’s ankles.
For a brief time I forget about
The bills and work and work and bills.

My clothes are tinged with sadness,
Their misbegotten brothers don’t dress
With them anymore; so set in their way
They can’t see their youthful crimes today.

I try not to care.

My chain smiles at my dress,
Approval sits smug on her face
As I pass the test.

I try not to care.

Boxes tied in bandages for a wounded ego
Are passed piecemeal for a so-so
Attempt at gratitude.

I don’t care.

Where’s the gun?

I retreat to work, laden with gifts unwanted
That make more bills more work
And drift through the day.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.

Five times seven.
Thirty-five.
Five time seven feels better.

Thirty-five.
Happy birthday, you’re alive.
A filled cake I don’t like.
Presents for my dad.
My son bought me my dad’s socks.

There’s a funny taste in my mouth.