Skip to main content

sunday morning

 nothing feels more lovely
than a sunday morning
window ajar
soft rain on the glass
the smell of wet grass
creeping through the gap
half-awake
eyes hazy
body warm
time eternal
and gentle
and oh so blissful
this moment is revolving
around the hand that i'm holding
the world outside is grey
but inside this room is golden
everything a shape
i can hardly make out
anything other than the closeness of your mouth
to mine as we sleep
in perfect solitude
on this lovely sunday morning
that i hope never ends
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

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...
Post a Comment
Read more

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
Post a Comment
Read more

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 
Post a Comment
Read more