woke to silver
light on
walls
in a bout of
restless
legs,
shapes rise and fade
as cars escape
from their own
sleepless
fates.
shadow work
i’m the bearded
vixen
with a heart
of molten vanilla,
and i weep
in lipstick shades
down the mirror
every time
we play.
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.
is it drowning to
take in too
much
of a taste like
elation?
bliss
become
suffocation.
may i be that thing
again?
the one with
a use
that fit in the
hand
of a warm blooded
man at play.
’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.
ever humming unsettled
these hymns of
the mad
in a key that
could strip
the shine from
life’s tip.
the harm and deep
hunger
demanded much
louder
and every last
second
rang with
alarm
as clocks went off
between the
ears.
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.
hands in the garden 
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