Bruised black brogues, the only uniform needed
for racing friends to our favourite swing,
or tumbling, tripping
into a week of bleeding knees
and the stench of antiseptic in a ceramic sink.
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We shamble-chased
down thin streets, baring
skin in those curt hours
when the night is coldest.
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She was an old lady,
a wad of history and aphorisms,
not like us, not angry, not restless.
A sweet sag in pink felt,
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I rest on the ocean’s surface.
Gentle waves knock me against
craggy cliff faces and sandpaper shores,
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And I don’t remember the cold, I remember the sun’s spotlight.
And I don’t remember fighting the wind, I remember the marks that we left on the sand.
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The honey-tongued devil, sewn onto skin,
Each stitch, turquoise and emerald bodies
Entwined; coffined in the indigo tide,
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On the first day, God screwed the light bulb in and flicked the switch.
Afterwards, he made you; and kicked his feet up on the couch
to let you finish it all off. On the second day, you made everything
grey turn green. For a while, God had assumed himself colour-blind,
and watched with envy as the world sprouted beneath you, the light
given something to look at.
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Silence. Peace. Panic.
Our steel shell sinks into the abyss
As we glide unseen through yielding waters.
Three inches from death with our world-ending weapons
Hidden away, an apocalypse at our fingertips, waiting for the call.
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