Rude awakenings. The morning
Resembles the night. Each day filled
With the gust of bitter winds. Every
Morning, and night, like one of early
November. Less cheerful than December.
Rude mornings. The awakening of gusts
That seems like the winds at night. Morning
Which is still really night, as you sip your tea
Waiting for the light. Open fingers. From
Preparing dinner before a breakfast has been made.
Rude winds. Cold mornings, like those of December
Only less cheerful. Bleeding fingers, while
Breakfast waits. Wind whipping away the night.
Rude fingers, dinner away. Rude awakenings.
No stars. Breath of wind. Far off voices.
It’s only just turned dark. Voices. Lots
Of them. They clamour around, not
Staggering yet. Side lane. Trees overhead.
Cutting silhouettes into the sky. Church.
Stale piss. The smell burns my senses.
Clamour. People. The cake. Oh look
It’s a celebration. Food. Orange drinks.
Lime fingers. The centrepiece went down well.
Swan. Apple. Melon with boiled strawberries.
Girl. Darkened room. Lights. The party can
Begin now. Shudder of shutters. Click, click. Click, Click.
Man with a camera, hope I get to see them later.
Fuzzy hours. Lazy games. Memories. These
Are what I’d dreamed of. The coat. The bag.
The empty room. Trees. The night is still black.
No stars. Dead wind. Far off slurs. They don’t
Walk, they stagger. I know the night is ending.
Room. Bed. Clock. The slurred voices never lie.
The view from Alun 201
Lamp. Black. Debutant Plaths, Larkin’s and Audens alike.
One stops to appreciate my eye. Tree. Leaves.
Like Children’s hands reaching towards me. Averted eye.
Old mortar stares me down. Its ancient lines cry wisdom.
There’s nothing funnier than its misery.
To its left, a seemingly gross tumescence.
Engorged Mortar Member. Why no one cringes is beyond me.
Victorian lamp. False garden. How the two are
Forced together fascinate me. No one else – just me.
The Children’s hands reach out. They are my hands.
No wonder, I’m home.
The student Romeo to His Unknown Other
Come with me and be my dove,
And live all pleasure of my love
Gaze upon mountains from indoors.
Those lonely looking high up moors.
Here we will sit upon the finest chairs
Of plastic, wood, perhaps the bed,
Watching others wash their socks
Or laden with their books too much.
In here I can make a seaside of paper
Their tides against the crumbs of sand-
Not only last night’s dinner. A scarf
Of autumn leaves, I will lay before you.
A necklace of shoes littering my room
These are your pearls. The Masses of
Wires are your dresses, and your crown
Colours captured as though pillow bound.
On our walks you will eat ice cream, even
In October, nothing is sweeter. I will pluck
For you, loose change from my pocket, pubs
And pool tables will be your pleasures.
The diamond sparkle for your eye, shall be the
Caviar is nothing compared to your crackers
Perhaps with cheese, made half hourly.
Others will look in awe, at you my Queen-bright-
No doubt taller than me. When May will move
We shall sing each morning, devoting to delight.
Now my dove- live with me and be my love.