i would like to make poems out of real objects

- the one in which i live with my love

It was while I was resting

By the quiet nightstand

                Of the fresh  landscape    Waiting for

Sunlight — when I said

I’d stay with you forever if you built me a Bird House

So we finished our

Evening meal by the

Fire escape, feet splayed soft, shivering as children

Shimmer — ashamed in outliving the other, when the moon flew

Off with your thinness

AND my blouse, eyelets letting MY pink

Observe hard city life

Between odours of sweat and lily skin, like a

Raincoat with wet underneath

Though

It is night & the gaudy blue

Curtains silent yet

Alive like a woman falling into

Arms you have painted me

Keep

                               Painting, those colours give a wholeness to silk

I've never seen it before, a young man whispers his secrets to the 

Crows only when his Young Lady (possibly I ) is within                 ear shot. 

                             I am ready for my goodbye kiss ... 

You refuse to Look! 

I have never

Cried with dew on my

Nose in front of you — neither have I dislocated my tongue

Hungry with its

Tin pan

Buds slamming their little bedroom

Doors ‘cos if I taste you I’ll have to sit at an empty cafe

Rolling in yellow BECAUSE most of the pleasure is in

Being far away from you well, now, my (?) love I have never

Had a house on this road with

You, I don’t even know

What you’re on about, are you still

Playing the trombone with a

Pond inside of you, making no noise &

Watering the coriander? Are you still building me that Bird House ?

                                                   Look at Him! Must I even go on....?

          To explain everything properly I need strong 

Arms& if he wants to leave me he must use his

Teeth I get so very

Red

And hot, have another

Smoke & dial & the rain interrupts me with a knock — I’m cycling

Down Lennox Hill — past the greenless cemetery && one must rip the

Waves into pieces to find fish so when I get home from being a

Waitress in the steak

House We’re in the living

Room together , it’s dark, suddenly he’s

Talking about his grandfather

Stitching the new zealand landscape back

Together, a tiny golden polyp hanging from his

Mouth how cruel a thing is cigarettes &

Sleep to a woman & the walk from the lounge

To the bedroom like altitude

Sickness, back when I grabbed the age of twenty

Five and I was

Crazy at least we are hand in bad

Hand living together while poets in

America lunch on

Death & romantic dogs bark under wooden traffic lights

Peel RED light from the penny dark earth &deconstruct

Planets into smaller more

Precise gestures like a

Boiled quail’s egg… eternalised in liquid thoughts…..

I skid on my

Heart, because I need you the ceilings

Pity me && gleefully shake

Your cheek onto my

Hair, a male

Shout, I have never seen a man without

The strength of anger, you gentle threat, black milk

From your fountain I’ll

Guzzle ‘cos all our love is chained to one

Bouquet I could cauterise the stems but I’d rather

Walk to the soft city alone

Wondering if there is anything

BUT decadence or a complicated musical

Phrase, O delicious skies the grey of a young goat, wide as

It’s horns too —

The sink has drowned our old

Baby clothes like flannels, we’ve grown

Too old together into wrinkled

Oysters, a fork through my lip

Glows slightly stale from three days

Of talking, as told to MY ear

By a seashell, I know why the earth wears

Black all night, she’s an old photograph of

THAT Willow tree, the one from Manchester & my mint coloured

Heart feels immense pleasure when you walk into the

Room && alcohol arrives

In the disguise of a dung beetle before you kill anything

I think we might need it to soak stains in the carpet or

Roll our lungs along the alleyway

Wake from my dog-ish

Sleep, dreams sealed up

To you parting smooth bed sheets stench of

Tobacco and grown ups, pulling the anchor

Belly to HOT belly O Lord & workers outside

Slot the sky back, the quarry pit shaped like an

Old man rises, clothed in neon madness, the breeze

Resembles insect legs on flesh, business suits catch the

Tram to docklands a wet white

Tile smudged, sweep the flowers off the bed , push Lorca

To the floor — morning asks the

Bedframe WHY MUST

YOUR WOMAN SAY SO LITTLE … you become a

Gully reaffirming my

Nudity, sleep now young lovers, bones rot to pearls, I want

Badly to be a mother with a wound, would you

Let me — untowelled

Moonlight on us both, sky mutilated also needs

Dentist’s cotton she’ll spit her worry into

Our faces well why do YOU suppose

Human beings have lips /spleens / wombs plump

Pants and vests?

You idiot you spy you special comrade YOU … You don’t

Disturb my sleep

What disturbs my sleep most

Is that bloody unbroken moon

Folding into Brunswick Street & they burn each other’s

House down, I watch

From my ice green window they are

Fist fighting like the vein that surface in his

Wrist while moving his beach wide

Mattress onto my

Floor & his feathered chest, how

His heart breaks into a million

Polka dots to line my

Coat in the winter when swallows

Fly at a low speed & will he walk along the coast

With me?

                   Perform the solemn task of

Roots & embrace each other into eternity — we have

Come too close to the end with morning

On our shoulders, though I am happy now I don’t

Regret the years spent roaming alone, rose-less && we have a thousand

Terraces to live inside of

Before we decide to leave this house & cycle to Gertrude street for a

Coffee, we have nothing to do but make our house into a

Novel & who is that to the side of YOU in YOUR

Painter’s shirt, must she live every day beside you, writing poetry while

You sweep the alleyway and make Compost for the orange tree WELL Must

That make you Happy?

*Photograph by JACK SPENCER.