The Year Pt. II

So fast forward three months
see me sprawled,
alone
clothes in piles like grubby religious offerings

The harsh grey morning
heaving its way in
past ten o’clock

My mouth open,
bottle and glass
still sitting on the side
9 hours later

Crumpled receipts and coins
one boot still on foot
noone else in the room, or the house

The faint smell of burnt hair
when I reached to open the window, late
forgetting the candle was lit

When with a rude shock,
the bouquet of dying flowers
lost its balance
fell hard and loud from table to floor

1am Petal scraps
slowly becoming dust
in the stale days that follow

Yet I’m still asleep
hair over face
frowning in my mottled dreams

Whilst a beer bottle downstairs
dribbles the last of its contents
and rolls under the sofa

You, Me, Next Week

Below me, beyond clouds
a four-day morning
we’ll sleep
and we will wake

Those hours, I’ll be humming
my toes on the edge
the blanket
the mist out the window

Your profile
a Roman myth
soft as you hand me the mug
smile like a grey, soft sky

To open and breathe
black, hot, bitter
the music pours out like wine
and you,

You
resonate on my tongue.

Photo-frame

She sat crying into her hands
in France
 
Wishing to be drunk
in dusk
 
Someone’s veranda faraway
in Australia
 
Spoken cackles
beer-stained lawn
 
Not the ego,
the embroidered façades
 
She got up just to spill her red wine.