Untitled Poem #12

I think about you always,
Although we’ll never meet,
And yet in only thinking
I find we are complete.

I think about you always,
And wish that I was yours,
But strange how in the thinking
We’re kept on different shores.

The Runner

When it ended, the money,
You would go running
For as long as you could,
Up on the cliff tops
And through the deep woods.
For as far as we try, yes try
To remember feelings like dreams,
Where events taking place
Exclude us from scenes.

Did you ever stop running?
Just as I can’t stop cleaning.
We were so near, you and I,
To the life we were dreaming.
I found your sports cap,
They brought yellow tape;
Now I can’t sing of oceans
And I can’t forget lately
How fog drapes our map.

Mirror Image

I became an image of me.
Too late, I wondered
Where my true self should be.
All this time squandered
In the mirror image of me.

I cried out once, inside my love,
The replica baffled my sounds;
So, hidden in hollows
I caused all the sorrows,
Treading his unhallowed ground.

Look at the colours they said
Look at these bones so profound.
They could not have known
If I am kind, to suppose,
Of how I remained below ground.

Motorcycle Heart

Moonbeams on your Vespa,
No further symbols for trespass,
Behind the blind billboards of our minds
We could do anything we wanted,
And so we chose absolution,
Love unadorned, scooter tyre-patterned.

I massaged your bare feet,
Tired from oblique laws,
Passages of egos and fuel.
You nurtured my eclipse
Until I bit my lower lip. I learnt
How to live on your tongue

And inside your yawn.
Like the light of Punta Campanella
Or the abandoned tors of and moors of Lazio,
Clematis-clad elemental tubors
Are all unclad and unstrung.
A thorn plucked from my thigh,

Hubris carved from its twin stillborn.
You are the clue to my murder,
You are the breadcrumbs in my forest
And the compressed skin beneath the rings
Of the sun. Is this my body and breath,
Or is it yours? Sometimes, it is difficult

To tell the two apart. No hard feelings, then,
When the moon has poured and moved on,
Pregnant as seahorses in the male thoughts
In my belly, the sound of a small motorcyle
Starts in my heart. I breakfast alone
With a second sound, of healing

And feelings which are akin to migrating
Mythical birds which had not been heard in
My absurd world for a very long time.
You are the mechanism and I am the loss
As we are tossed and buffeted by
The grey mosaics tomorrow accosts.

You are music in my subconscious womb;
Workaholism reduces us to the musk
Of what once was. I play blue tunes
To remind me of you, and every time
I hear a Vespa outside my window,
I cannot help but wonder, and look.