i’m the bearded
vixen
with a heart
of molten vanilla,
and i weep
in lipstick shades
down the mirror
every time
we play.
rhyme
if love was the
flame,
we caught it
in our
teeth
to pass between
our lips
‘til first hint of
breeze
showed us it was
a tease.
sailing ships with
my eyes,
toes firm upon
land,
birds circling
until dizzy,
braced in sudden
a breeze,
summer rests its hand
upon my shoulder
to remind me
i’m seen
and stained into
the scenery.
is it drowning to
take in too
much
of a taste like
elation?
bliss
become
suffocation.
’twas upon crooked
hill
that our house
leaned
as though to watch
us leave
for flusher
scenery,
as cracks turn
break
and paint becomes
flakes
may we never
glance
back
at its sorry
old state.
settling into
strange bathwater
i swallow soap
bubbles to
float
but drift to the
ocean floor
as though i’d
died here
before.
i turn my
head
to alter my
view
and notice you
turning
too.
ever humming unsettled
these hymns of
the mad
in a key that
could strip
the shine from
life’s tip.
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.
i drift sky
waves
like they know
my name
and mend in their
embrace,
while atop beach
rocks,
swimmers pause to
gawk
as i’m carried
off into
space.
hands in the garden 
You must be logged in to post a comment.