In the Absence of Words
You arrive
unannounced,
but I suspect
you never left.
You’re a kind of
chain-smoking Mona Lisa,
leaning against my bedroom door.
My ears bend
to a voice,
as real,
as this shrill cicada summer,
at the edge of hearing.
But your smile
let’s me know,
it’s 3.17 pm,
and I’m drunk (again).
Locked between,
a room,
and a bottle,
and your skin-tight,
ruthless,
wordless,
eloquence.
Sunday Roast
Last Tuesday,
whilst up to my elbows
in blood and feathers.
Having skewered
old Romeo,
my cocksure bantam,
And left him,
and the stench,
to drain.
I thought of you.
I thought,
I must invite you over,
I mean,
it’s gut wrenching,
and all Jane’s stuff’s still here.
Her blue Fiji blouse,
and the tickets,
and it just feels like
this whole situation
has been left
hanging.
Bryan,
tomorrow’s Sunday.
I’m having a roast.
Join me,
I promise you
a warm
reception.
