this place is for
holidays
only,
we live in a room far
more dark and
empty
where walls hold
generations
of intentions confined
to frame,
portraits snapped at
different
times
all boast the same
ghastly grin
in grey,
but we’re on
holiday.
dark
a feast upon the
wound
to cleanse what
won’t be
cured,
embracing
the discolour
of bruising under
teeth.
with wings like
shadows
he veils wild
eyes
from smoke, which coats
his feathers
like threats that plague him
through the
night.
like a rose between
pursed lips,
you sweeten the
breath
and seal my
mouth,
like the weed between
time’s teeth
you grind me up,
and spit
me out.
i prayed unto
a glossy
moon
that dare not turn
its lighter
side
with all
that i still hide.
shadow on the
window
sill
says nothing yet
rules me
still
by granting my
childest
desires-
by absolving
tears on
fire.
fresh cut
smell
on slipping
day,
holding
on..
only to watch
it fade,
deep gut
swell,
the night grows
bare
little left to do
but stare.
stippled ceilings-
prickly feelings in
the depths,
quickened
breaths,
headlights gloss
a window
pane-
sweat stains an
unmade
bed.
carried on a
breeze’s
trace-
is hollow ache i can’t
quite place,
though known well
by its acrid
taste
i breathe it into
cracks on
face.
the tone is
dour,
a taste grown
sour
on tongue of
beast
in need of
shower,
curtains drawn-
grim features
sketched
on wall to
see..
what’s better
left,
from tower, man
emerges
clean and fresh,
with gentler
urges.
hands in the garden 
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