Leftovers

I’m meeting you for coffee. You see me and wave me over. Your hands span a cinnamon cauldron – Hot syrup, milk and cream.

 

I watch customers over your shoulder.

          A solemn girl is sitting alone by the door. 

          A ravenous man by the window is devouring pastry.

 

Thick lips steal bites – a tooth-rot taste of folded almond cream.

 

His mouth is dirtied with dustings of icing sugar, and flakes of almond.

He saves the crumbs for a wetted fingertip, and the girl watches her coffee

Go cold.

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Ingredients

Take:

          One first date

          A compliment about how green my eyes are

          A knot in the stomach from hands nearly touching at the table

          An awkward moment at the end deciding whether to kiss.

 

Add:

          A second of the same again

          A kiss this time, with eyes closed

          A borrowed jumper (optional)

 

To finish:

 

          Take the entire weekend, in and out of the same blue dress

          Make sure not to let the mixture                                     separate.

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Love in Fifths

 Falling in love only takes one fifth of a second. We have been together for 31,536,000 seconds – Give or take.

 

 So it slips that I don’t take sugar in coffee, and you leave wet towels on our bedroom floor.

Every morning I put the kettle on, and you kiss me on the cheek when you leave.

 

157,680,000 fifths –Give or take.

 

31,536,000 seconds                          of every state of us.

 

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Untitled Prose Poem

I’m meeting you for coffee. You see me and wave me over. I tip my head and walk to where you’re sitting. You say that it’s good to see me, that I look good. I haven’t seen you in red before and I say that you always look good. Your hands are spanning a cinnamon cauldron-hot syrup, milk and cream. Too sweet to finish.

 

I see other customers over your shoulder. A solemn girl is sitting alone by the door, and a ravenous man by the window is devouring some kind of pastry. Thick lips steal bites, of a tooth-rot taste of folded almond cream. His mouth is dirtied with dustings of icing sugar and flakes of almond. He saves the crumbs for a wetted fingertip, and the girl watches her coffee go cold.

 

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Give me your ha…

Give me your hand, peach

Peaches

Peaches and Cream.

Peaches and Cream and god awful Merlot.

 

Spoon me,

pour me,

back into the melamine bowls and plastic beakers

of our (im)perfect evenings.

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When the whistl…

When the whistle blows on the overground

I want to be sat, leaned back

When the engine goes, when the engine goes.

Rolling forward, ever forward-

These steel wheels will never be my ocean,

their mechanical motion, when the engine goes,

leaned back in a quivering shell.

Boxes full of scratched, etched windows,

to look out at the same, same names

and spaces of square footed office places you don’t want to buy,

at the ominous curtains of the stultifying fog they call sky,

Floating atop concrete constructions,

the city of smoke.

Of drones, travelling the world in “zones”

A patchwork quilt of pencil skirts,

of bad taste in ties,of paperwork

A paper-mached public transport

from pin-striped linen, scarves of silk.

of metros and mails and PVA glue,

and orange splices down the side where the financial times burns through.

To hell with you.

Give me elbow room, and something to read

over a broad, square, chipped and burdened shoulder

The city’s sense of grey and gloom is left behind me,

growing older.

The city stinks- of sweat, and stress,

of decaf soya syrup drinks,

of starched, pressed collars from 6am, 

and I don’t like the way it thinks.

The way it rushes, spits, and stirs-

the gate took my ticket but spat back out herrs.

It stirs and crushes, divides us into zones,

gives us complicated coffees and the feeling of being alone,

and it gets less, and it gets less,

of anything like home. 

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Recycling

How do you make yourself

Sound like my summer?

Speak hot air.

Spill

cooling kisses.

 

You packed bags in autumn

of its dying leaves-

Countless times.

We snapped,

with their spines

 

Shouted-

through snow,

Melted-

from pedestals.

 

You put us

in a bin bag

and now

You want it back. 

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