Let your sycamore structured palms
chastely stroke their stems upon my skin
until I am diminished to bone dust.
Draw your whirlpooled lips close
to whisper imbrued subclauses
saturated with sylvanian secrets.
Let the eastern copses quiver
with the naked draft of hornet-flight,
borne on the pithy wings of clouds
that curl inbound with infiltrating gusts,
billowing onyx flecks of intermerate granite
over humbly threadbare ragged pastures.

Oh! By the way, that’s not my surname. It’s a typo. That would be cool if it were my surname though. I’d feel like a wild deer.

Protoplast Sea Ridge

I am waiting for her to pull
the sloe arc and glades
from out of my skin.

Heavy meadows
uprooted, half a varicose
sunset of lashline nictitating
before the unwelcome fibril
is even due upon my supraorbital
ridge. Pores bleating empty.

I bleed the blood of another nation,
perspire the tears of another hominid.
I am a landfill for blood and bones,
putrid depot for spoiled iron
and the ill-fitting anxieties
that benevolently rot the veneer
of my cortical bones.

The more skins graze mine,
the more cells of the past
are exfoliated ‘til I am new.
‘Til granular dribblings of ozone
swaddle my heliophilic muscles
like an incommodious wintercoat
nagging the limbs of a schoolgirl.
I have been so cold
for so long.

His blood mottles every inkstain.
Heaven’s oceans burning until the
crucified stars - cocked with
indomitable seedlings
corrugating an aurelian smirk -
sweat whilst fixed in their places,
glaring at their sunkissed vices.

The gulls are breaking tide,
the seas are sculling further.

I hear his nocturnal prayers
crawling between each cobalt wave,
demurely skimming the bashful
peakling of a southern shipwreck,
proclaiming at tidal collisions,
whispering anchored salves
to the crown of shallow measures,
spitting toe-prints into drunken sand,
finding his way to the shoreline.



His forehead is a raging sea
of misunderstood worries.
His eyes are the flecks of gold leaf
hastily mixed into rich bean chocolate.
His collarbones are newly fractured
champagne flutes.
His chest is a hollow cave
inhabited by anxious rats.
His hands are pressed flowers
sleeping inside a dictionary.
His left hipbone is a solitary mountain,
ridges enveloped by misted water.
His knees are Neil Armstrong’s kisses
on the matted scalp of the moon.
His feet are enslaved roadrunners,
silken shells heavy with blithe sedative.

Gardener’s Reverie

We sat like mossing hortensias
on the slate island squares
speckling the sunkissed tributary
of our indecipherable garden dream.

Our house – Our House –
where we built wordplay
in the gloaming prison cells
between flaws and ceilings.

You existed, kiss besmirching
paradigm sketch of a kiss stain-
so grapevine follicles curl inwards,
lit by the conjoining of kismet stars.

You existed in each breviloquent pause,
every sundried sentence waltzing
on the impulsively upturned canoe
of my summertide-chapped lips.

The rubied flesh betwixt torn leaves
bashfully flushed a robin hue,
as if you had invented the sun and
the torched cities swaddling her curves.

Your hands painted your words;
zephyrs skimming over pitted nails,
cross-stitching the stars taut together
with our blind, bleating fingertips.

We perched on our zealous islet
coddled in cockled crows’ feathers,
beaks picking at raw ventricle flesh
‘til the silver knaves of winter tumbled
and swept our balmy skins
soil-wards to bury the clement season.

Earth revolves once, and I am here again,
writing your name in the wind again.

Fermented Blueprint of a Man

I can hear you through the ceiling.
Elbow skins grinning
into the grotto crooks
of windowsills alpine dusted
with rondures of spider shells.

You paced yourself at the bar.
It wasn’t difficult when
your leaden fingerprints quaked
and quivered with the carnation
satisfaction of a dull ease,

the shelled pattern of each
cell diminished peak
holding the sweat of each
blood-brazen pint glass
stagnant within whorl folds.

The woodwork galaxies
penned into the bar-top
snarl their furling patterns
into your corneas, beneath
their beer-spillage beds.

‘Who would want to contact me
after seven pints swell their
calcified laughter into my lungs?’
You finger the lips of your phone,
coins, keys as they sleep in your pocket.

Weightless and obtrusively demanding
with each inbound metallic click,
the currency of Trimalchian fears
corrodes the porcelain tunnels between
your teeth, turns your skin a palsied hue.

Your thoughts oxidise in place,
hands claw the thighs of the nearest girl,
eyelids clamber to aurora hallucinations.
You can’t make sense, you lonely,
fermented blueprint of a man.

You are a landfill for stammered sentences,
inappropriate tenses, gimmicks
of personal pronouns,
north-west Nottinghamshire slang,
and lukewarm mugs of tea.

Palms heavy as industrial padlocks
weighing a plea for unprotected sex
atop her scalloped kneecaps.
You’ve had too much; cerebrum
now licking the skyline of reality.

A mossy conscience slumbers inside
the bounds of your gauzed skull
like a lost lamb haplessly misplacing
itself outside the fencework
of his emerald hometown.

The grief curdles into little snails
that now stir within your wristbones.
You milky tea, toast, durex,
pound coin, stowford press,
discarded contact lens of a man.

His Chaffinch Bronchioles

Bloodrush to each
seashore curvature
of your swollen rinds.

Brittle chaffinch yet to blossom;
ignite the twiglet bronchioles
to seal her dulcet, layered lungs
with the gris-toned air
of a cloudless wasteland.

Lumbering altostratus,
heavied by the slug anticipation
of another day to dress the sky;
another shy - delectable, snarling -
attempt to settle the storm.

The soiled conifer rings
stinging the nylon hatches
of a sex-worn sofa
bite their way into the dank
rust of his parquet thighs
- muddy crust of mildewed tea
spilling creativity southwards,
outspoken mug-face leering leftwards.

Wades through the sands of time
like a steadfast skimming stone.
Filo sheets of plenary bone,
covered by casket cells
of dogpaw legends’ glow
until the sadness stores itself
in the graves between his toes.

Moondust Alveoli

Mid-morning Midland breeze unheeding
in the perfunctory way it shatters
its crustacean rind into the periphery
dust lovingly clinching the windowpane.

The wind hits our tepid thighs,
swipes our artless kneecaps,
curls around the seashore pillbox
vacant peaks of our shoulders.

The brazen zephyrs of your road
are careless and blissfully unloving.

Clouds are costumed pockets of tar
and we wait with sweat-wringed hands
locked homely as cardiovascular ventricles
for the cotton to pass northwards.
The warbling cumulonimbus dances
above the jilted pier of your hairline.

You are the fretted debris
of ruptured khaki glass bottles
sleeping as a pitifully scared lamb
dotingly swirling into the sunflower
skin patterns carved into your left sole.

Whilst the bedsheets are biting us,
I curl a gingerly antiquated, unearthed
aubade into your hairpin lips.
Dead skin scathing against dead songs.

My doleful ears listen to the pulses,
clear as newfangled camomile tea,
of your merlot-tinctured heart.
New Order and snail-shell bloodstains
patting the shy islands of your spinal cord.

Blushing azure and helium skylines
hastily fucking the crusts of our skins -
we draw carapace blood in another merry
universe slotted in an uncouth rapture.

For now, our cherry-bruised chests
swell to meet ill-rendered clouds
where beatific wordless breaths
melt their petals into the stale horizon.