Skip to main content

lilt (verb)

my leo
my love
i'm writing this whilst watching the sun set above
my tube carriage and my journey's just begun
but the blues and the pastels and plums
can hardly compare to you
lilt (verb)
to move musically
my leo you make me dizzy
since i first saw you i fell in love completely
you're a vision
an artistic decision
you walked into class and started a tradition
of being wonderfully intimidating
your ideas are intriguing
and i have a hard time believing
you're anything less than brilliant
the clouds are getting thicker now
deep dark and mesmerising
unsurprising
limerence (noun)
the state of being infatuated with another person
your cancer moon pulls back the curtain
of hedonism, luxury and perversion,
i joke
you may as well be an earth sign because you keep me grounded
and i surround myself with crystals for protection
but magic flows from your fingertips
like our taurus
and when tasks may seem laborious
you make them sweeter
and softer
like your words
and your shirts
the world is your convert
a king amongst men
the future comes quick but
my leo you'll do great things by then
and you'll do it all with class and grace
staring injustice in the face
with those eyes we share
around you, my leo, nobody can compare

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father        i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father        but  my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father        these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father         this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...

i can only write when i am thinking about God

 I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust,  guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty  God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me,  most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God

two foxes playing at a train station at night

rotten creatures, full of pestilence and noise  run!  chase the last train away the last human with it, bring your nuisance here your mischief, your trickery sovereigns of the night the earth is yours, run circles round each other leave tracks upon the floor,  for the day folk to find and wonder the secrets of your tiny paws