You take a picture
of a woman taking a picture
of the view
you can see,
the pastel tones sloshing
into one another,
synchronised just right tonight.
Steel blue that gives way
to tufts of lilac,
to a pink grapefruit wave,
the reflection glazed
to the glass beside you.
Slurry of chat in the air,
tourists and locals
hugged by coats,
sharing the same space,
silver breath that idles
before it scarpers.
Minute cubes of light
**** out across the water,
your city painted
in beautiful shades.

I don’t have to make much of a sound.
I can let the sentences coalesce
in the air, a dual carriageway of words
interspersed with a laugh.
The names I store are few.
I don’t have to yank them
from the chest, swipe off clumps of dust -
they glow when they need to
like fireflies swaying in the night.
I dribble out my current affairs,
watery vowels from my mouth.
Am I boring you?
Voice like an elderly hoover,
interest tumbling down the stairs.
You’ve done more in five minutes
than I have in five weeks.
I blink, then I sink.
It’s OK.
The days of rapid chat
are six feet under,
flaws knocked out of shot,
not as blindingly bright.
I wonder where you were years ago.
We’d know more;
my gawky movements less present,
my mind not pulsing
with impossible possibilities.
Still I shudder at the distance between us.
Pauses plump as bubbles
that can’t be popped.
The flow halted
by my wodge of insecurity.
No bother.
I swallow what I can,
let the taste coat my throat.
If you sparkle
you can help me too
without being aware.
The sludge will vanish for a while.
You don’t even have to make
too much of a sound.

Hear the ***** of glasses,
shriek of chairs against wood,
photos streamed across walls
elbowing for attention.
Smell the sawdust simmer from the floor,
knife-carved letters etched
decades before by dead hands,
wishbones strewn around
by lads who never returned.
The stubbly Irish guy pours a McSorley,
watch the marigold glug into the mug
and froth over the top.
A gaggle of women natter at the back,
the flatscreen, out of place, chatting away too.

A grotty morning.
Grass pecked by frost overnight,
lead fug in the air
and I'm walking a mile
in uncomfortable shoes.

The receptionist
warbles a song I don’t know.
Ten minutes of maths  
followed by the typical
compote of questions again.

Two year four children
navigate me past classrooms,
primary colours,
shaking hands and nodding heads,
facts that drizzle over me.

Hours pass, phone cries.
The answer swells blister-like.
It’s thanks but no thanks.
He pours advice, wishes well.
I hurtle back to the start.

now where do I begin?
The beginning? Nah.
How about I start at the end?
The door that was slammed in my face.
The shouting and name calling and cutting, bruising words?
You know, the kind of thing that can't be taken back.
Yeah, let me start there because
everybody likes a sad story
and our story darlin', ours is the best.
It has love and love lost.
It has tears and ripped up love letters and "Get the **** out's"
It has me begging like a dog and you putting your fingers in your ears
Yeah, let's start the story at the end
because everybody likes a sad story
and ours is the best.

My happiness is
Four-legged, wrapped in fur
When she's with me
All my sorrow gets blur

After a rough day
When I get home,  in complete despair
A wagging tail waits for me
to give me hope,  to wipe off any tears

She waits for me patiently
And never does she complain
When she jumps and kisses my face
She erases all the pain

Early In the morning
when coming out of bed seems so dreadful
She is there to wake me up
with a heart,  so joyous so playful

I encounter unconditional love
Every now and then,
Here I feel desolated
Here I go to her again !!!

Look at the ones
with beehives for mouths,
ejecting out opinions
to anyone caught in a net
of overworked words,
every opinion delivered
with a lethargic varnish,
each one a sting
as a glob of soap in the eyes.

But we use our voice
with our lips tightly shut.
Let the art inside us
buzz like a sneeze
waiting for release,
blast out in a fizz
of ink and smudged fingertips.
Hear the consonants trickle
like a tap not quite turned off,
the vowels rising and falling as waves.

Spill your thoughts if you must.
Make a point.
But don’t hurl them at us
with a sour taste ,
sharp as an already grimy blade.
Use them sparingly and well,
let them linger before
evaporating in a trail of steam,
as if a ***** of sunlight
before it slithers
beneath the horizon.

I think a v
oice is co
ming ba
ck to me
caught up i
n the breeze

I’d turn it int
o a song
but my words a
re like water
gone too q
uick

you know the brit
tle moments
that cru
mble as a child
crushing a flow
er in their hands

you’re the gh
ost beside me
present b
ut never
really the
re at all