Her Last Friend

Her Last Friend

The sky was brimming with rich margerine light

And the pigeon walked slowly

Nodding yes to everything in its way.

It must have landed clandestinely
Because it was almost at my feet before I saw it

(Or maybe I was too clandestine for it to notice me).

Its feathers

Were fine, dark, grey filaments of rain clouds

Its feet

Were newborn earthworms with toes, nails and scales.

It was not an unusual pigeon

But it seemed so to me.

This pigeon didn't seem to know why it was here –

The wind came and it nodded yes

The dirt rose and it nodded yes

The sun burned and

Stoically, it nodded yes.

Then it pecked at the earth

And sand sprayed like water

But the ground did not yield.

It wanted a worm or some other invertebrate

Before the rain came to drive it away

And I should say that it deserved to eat

Just for being so positive.

So it pecked again

And the sand sprayed

But the ground did not yield.

It paused (as if thinking)

Tilted its head

Then pecked again.

The sand sprayed

But the ground did not yield

So it jumped and flew away.

And so did I.

Saudade

Saudade

Few things are as arresting

As clouds and the shapes they make.

Isn't it surreal how they hang

In a lazy listless lull –

Moving still

Like ponds

Moulding fancies

Like daydreams.

Visceral ephemera that almost

Look like things you wish were real –

A familiar smile

Disguised as floating lather

Or pearly impressions

Of her afro hair.

Then you reach to touch the sky and realise

That the clouds are never really there.

The Colourful Thing

The Colourful Thing

The day is filtering by unnoticed, just like days tend to. Face by face, smile by smile, nod by nod – each moment tiptoes by. The sun (tired of smiling) is slowly changing faces with the moon (tired of hiding). I'm draining away (like light does with the hours) when I see the most colourful thing I have ever seen. It is a supernova collage – a white phosphorous explosion with a rainbow stain. It forces the spectrum of visible light a little wider than possible and paints pictures the shade of fantasy. It breathes (swelling to inhale, shrinking to exhale) a dangerously delightful drug that, for a moment, forces euphoria. I sleep-sigh like I've found the answer to it all and drool-smile like I don't care I'm an addict. It feels great. I mean, it's pretty OK. It is a burning obsession – like a nucleus of daylight eating, from the centre outwards, through thin sheets of night. Soon night is consumed and all there is left is an unmysterious morning. I guess this is it. Pretty fun. It's still the best thing I've ever seen. I wonder what comes next? Is there something more interesting than the most beautiful thing I have ever seen? What is that most beautiful thing again? Why did I stop here? Oh shit, it's dark! And everyone’s gone… left me behind. I've been standing here wasting my life away… Why? I think I saw something, but I can't for the light of me remember what.

Making Plans

Making Plans

The weatherman forecasted rain

But I didn't listen.

Forecasts 

Are often wrong anyway 

(Rain clouds are so angry

They never listen to anyone).

I'm strolling

To a sunny rendezvous

When I see them

Rushing slowly towards me 

Like a spillage towards an edge;

People usually catch them on umbrellas

But today

I didn't prepare for rain.

Soon the sky gets melodramatic

Shouting, flashing and crying 

(Most likely at the ground)

And I'm caught in the middle.

 

Then I stop caring

And let the spillage flow over

(Like the blue of the sky

Did with the grey).

It surprises me to learn

That heavy rain can be refreshing too

Once it has passed.

Pretty Girls Have It The Hardest

Pretty Girls Have It The Hardest

Pretty girls must find it pretty tough –

You know

Being blind, deaf and dumb.

Everywhere they look

They see nothing.

Except smiles –

Brilliantly blinding

Devilishly dark

Like startling stars

Floating

Side by side

(A     million     miles     of

Inky evening skies between each) –

An optical illusion.

Every time they listen

They hear nothing.

Except flattery –

Sensuously streaming

Deafeningly drowning

Like watery waves

Crashing

One after another

(Sweetly

Submerging

Terrestrial truths below sea level) –

Something fishy.

Everything they say

Means nothing.

Except sex –

Passion pure

Loveless lust

Like thirsty ticks

Biting

Host after host

(Simple slaves to nature

Always at your side) –

Friends with needs.

Who can tell

Lovers from liars

Being blind, deaf and dumb?

How To Never Die

How To Never Die

The sunflower did not move
except skyward.
Its sultry summer petals
opened and spread
Like glowing fingers
Of radiant sulphur –
Eager to caress
Long lustrous strands
Of carefree sunshine.

In truth
It did not reflect sunlight
It seemed, instead
To give the sun light.

For a thousand years
I, alone, saw this sunflower
Bloom
And never wither.

A Lot Like Love

A Lot Like Love

I would call her name

If I knew what it was.

The train carriage rumbles rowdy

Shrieking and shuddering

Steel grazing and grating –

A mechanical marinade of metallic sounds

All fading away

Because something else is rumbling louder.

‘The next stop is… change here for…’

But I can’t get off till she does.

She jumped on when I did,

Just before the doors shut.

I didn’t notice her (at first)

But when she sat, her gaze ran across mine –

She had special effects in her 
Golden brown eyes

Like a pair of simmering sunsets

Frozen in ice.

‘The next stop is… change here for...’

The train says, in a machine voice.

Home was five stops ago

Why would I get off now?

I should say something

But I can’t –

Paralysed with contentment

And a fire in my belly

To match the fire in her eyes.

The next stop is… change here for…’

She uncrosses her legs

Stuffs her phone in her purse

And turns, unaware, towards the doors.

When they open, she gets up

And walks off the train.

In a daze, I wonder

How do I get back home from here?