I Once Had A Lover

I once had a lover
who had gone head first
through the windscreen
of a rented car in Greece.

When I ran my hands over his forhead
I could feel where the shards of glass
had embedded themselves in his skull,
where the skin had grown over,
how the pieces of windscreen
had become a part of him
the way the weeds will grow over
anything left lying long enough
to be tangled in green tendrils.

Later,
after the cracks had appeared
and another type of shattering
left everything broken
there were pieces left beneath my skin
that sometimes I can still feel
though the skin has long since grown over
and the lumps are imperceptible
to eyes and hands
and lovers' lips.

Shattered and broken,
embedded
the leftovers of loves casualties
beneath the skin
impreceptible
barely there
beneath a new lover's touch
suspended in flesh

we are one,
the past and I
entwined as are the weeds
and anything left lying
too long
in their path.

Once In A Blue Moon

Midnight makes me
a loose
cannon
and the hand
of gin
has painted me happily
pink and joyful

Hemingway's hiding
beneath my bed
and once
in a blue moon
he waits for me in vain

while I'm wrapped up
in another's
arms
waiting for morning
waiting for something
waiting to know the appropriate move
I should know the appropriate move
by now, right?

But
I don't

I only know that I can't give up these vices
without the fear of being boring
wordless
lining up glasses full of
false idols

wanting to be
at the very least
the mistake you could learn from

I'd do that for you

the rain gives a staning ovation

we don't deserve it
 I don't
I'm reprising the role
it's autopilot, really
I know the lines
the blocking is stale
unspontaneous

only fear keeps
my glass full

my mouth shut
fleeing
with sunlight

and all my clothes,
hopefully.

Once in a blue moon
fear and
false idols align

and the best I can hope for
is that I've got
all
my
clothes. 

The Lovers Golden Hour

This
is the lovers
Golden Hour

the time that proceeds
the initial
attack
of attraction

the time
that will determine
what will become of
this life

this exterior beating life
that exists outside your bodies
separate,
but still your flesh
your blood.

No helicopter flies in,
no camouflaged doctors
apply pressure,
stop profuse bleeding

what will determine
whether this is terminal
is words

bathed in incandescent light

it is the hour before death
and the hour of birth

and it's exquisite splendour
exists
because you cannot yet tell
which it is.