Haiku 1

There is simply
Not enough space to express
What I want to say

Biscuits

Before the Persians defined the perfect balance of flour, sugar and eggs
Someone, in their wisdom decided to make a mould
Into which our ingredients are poured

Soft peaks of butter cream are whipped together
Milk, vanilla and honey are folded in
After which, we bake together at a blistering 180 degrees

Domed and elliptical, bumpy and imperfect
Our cream centres are soft and acquiescent
Sugar-spun gold, meets cinnamon swirls on shifting, sand like crumbs

Powdery to the touch, melt in the mouth
And packaged in fragile violet paper
Only the finest patisseries will stock our worldly goods

How appealing it is to peel back the tissue, just a little bit
Select the desired flavour of the evening
And let our taste buds do the talking

Delivery

After the longest night this feeling is recalled upon me
Memory within a memory twists the picture, effervescent
It snaps into focus the shining image of her body

This scene has been witnessed before, though I know not when
Writhing love reveals flesh. Thick, brutal gasps ring in my ears
Oxytocin floods the air, before the period of oceanic calm

Numbed pain now reduces her tears, gravity releases her secret
The splendour and majesty of the girl
At home in the nectar of being with the one she will love forever

Cherries

You held me in the street
Told me beneath moonbeams not to worry anymore
We belonged together, again you and I...
Tightly in your strong arms I yielded

So then, I found you cotton-on-cotton
To package the very centre of my universe
These holy red ribbons and cherries
Would tie the misplaced ends of our love back together

La Force

You have
Done to me, what you have done to others
Cold lava is grasped in my hand
I can, dash it to your face with my pure will

Your tear
Streaked face is moon like, wretched
Beseeching me to not leave
I will, not stumble and fall during this departure

La Force
Pierced my heart, her laughing wings
Lifted me like Pegasus from a burning ship
You shall never, see me again

The End of Longing

That was the name of the paper that I
Tore into shreds on the stairs

The baggage was packed in the hallway
In the bathtub our warped, mingled hairs

Goodbye to your chivalrous gestures
Farewell to your circumcised cock

That stood like a flag pole when I wasn’t there
Illicitly taking in stock

Of all those encounters with Janet and John
With Simon and Lindsay and Frank

Some nameless, most blameless
But all wholly shameless

When serially getting it off
In nightclubs, in fright-clubs, in car parks and lavs

In wooded glens, whisky joints, dives
Yes you romped, for England, for Scotland and Wales...

When you could have gone home to your wives

The Middle Way

It must have been spring as
Infant spiders scudded across the grass
Light glinted on the strings to their parachutes

I watch the procession of living-dead file into the garden
Moronic they paid no heed to the
Rooks flapping wildly above

I’m not a fucking Buddhist!
I want to shout, scream and flounce
Tear flesh with my teeth and go to hell

Green Tara takes me by the hand
Tells me though tears that my emotions are auspicious
I don’t know about that, but...

I leave an extra twenty pound note in her Dana box, just in case

Blood on the carpet

The cat walked in and told me to
Make a swift exit
She’d seen it all before.
“I just want to see your body” he said

I just wanted an extension on my bar tab
Naturally we both got what we wanted
And a tear-shaped stain on the cream, deep shag
Was my additional parting gift

Princes Street

The sash window is opened wide
Eyes and mind only half so
Pregnant peg-bag swings softly on the line
Lily of the valley in bloom

Warm air washes over me
Whispering
“Fly away with me”
Wanting to draw me away from who I have become

No ‘Dear John’ letter
Would ever be able
To stop the sun from rising
But the Moon, she wishes me to try

The Georgian Poet

Anciently perfect, you pointed to the hole in your woollen sock
Asked me whether I could darn? Darn it I can’t!
My young fingers couldn't manage such an intricate task.

Instead, I examine the dust on your navy-blue shoulders and wonder
Do you think Calliope would at all mind
If I also give her a spin one day, with my amateur offerings?

Rife with Whooping cough I am whisked off to a Holiday Inn
‘Mr Men’ wine gums were waiting on the bed for me
Next morning, grey gowned, I find a knotted silver chain in my pocket.

Later that day, a collection of mourners stand around as you are lowered
I watch them, bewildered and too say goodbye,
Just as I pluck the newly disentangled jewellery from my dress.

For J.D.C Pellow