As an angel steps from the mist,
He weeps, “not unless O my love I’m dead,
Gone before my time
Without a kiss from my beloved!”
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Heracles! They cry, they sing,
But he hasn’t done a single thing
Since his dad did him a favour,
Giving him some tasks under which to labour.
I mean, what did he really do?
Just killed some things (and not just a few).
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You’re a deviation from the season,
like picking blackberries in autumn.
Daddy’s flower, ripe for the picking,
he born with his brain, led by the heart.
Breathing thimble pricked with malicious prongs
through your white lily heart.
It might beckon to you on the street,
Grinning, leering, gnashing and clap you loudly on the shoulder,
As someone who has greeted your family before.
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Evening light seeps through the leaves
of a drowsy willow, whose arms encircle our little boat.
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It kicked me in the teeth,
And I felt my brain bounce
In the calcium cage coated
By my knotted hair.
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I took a challenge from a pair of resilient hands.
You claimed to want to stop
Our tapestries bleeding into each other
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Hi Darling, Just Calling to Say I’ve been thinking an awful lot lately
About all the things you’d do that rubbed me
The wrong way:
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