Dear garden of weeds,
The tuliped heads of your young
Sway in this breeze,
Troubled by the mist
That rises from the icy sea.
Kind mother, pick them one by one
And put them to sleep,
Hush, dear garden,
And sew them in a golden wreath.
Cheap pleasure is your perfume
in my breath
Cheap pleasure is your body
lying in a dream in my bed.
Cheap pleasure is the cigarette stub
we shared when we first met.
Cheap pleasure is love, they say,
between two men.
Pops like stars
in my delectable
~ found poetry from pages of ‘My Manchester, Student Guide’
You took my soul and
tied it like a white screen
between two trees, then,
sat on your hammock and watched
as many rosy films
as you pleased!
When elves visited Aunt Mary’s hut
She laid the table with fruit, rum-and-milk, biscuits with nut
All aligned in queues on two sides,
Unless all off the teapoy’s short leg slides,
Gone with a fault in the carpenter’s cut!
I now travel empty-handed
and with no luggage
but I carry my heart
Like a fat plump suitcase
some tickets and trinkets.
Pray, listen to me, dear
It has been so long a summer,
Can you not spare me a yellow evening, or a
Night below the stolen stars?
I long to spend hours talking of the world with you, under
Candle-light eating cherry tarts.
your face is the silver coin,
with which I mint milky memories;
they rage against my savage mind,
and put me to sleep.
Come, draw me a bath
I can drain my secrets in
None must know I drink.
I am tired of seeing relationships around me fail, break and fall apart, turn so tough that in the end there is no love left. I don’t want to fall in love just so that all of it can be slowly drawn out of me.
You see, it is something like this. Imagine you were a stamp collector. And you go to these stormy deserts and frozen mountains, you visit kingdoms from lost time. You speak to these old men in post-offices, men with warts and eyebrows as thick as grasslands. You do all of this only so that you can add to your prized collection each day. And one day, your box of stamps is beautifully full, it is so whole that you couldn’t possibly add another feather to it. Would you ever turn this box upside down?
What if I tell you you had to. Or someone else would.
I don’t want to go on collecting stamps all my life only so that someone can pick them up and send them on loveless postcards to mailboxes where they will never be read, never be discovered. I don’t want to love until I am empty.