BBL LDN

Time slipped through my fingers. We took the train, I took off my sweater. The weather, unexpectedly warm. they knew I was stoned. 

We unpacked. the wrong flag, above our castle. We contemplated using magic markers. We ate Mexican in one of London's finest.  We sat on bins and took photos of Big Ben. I bought a beer in secret, I hid it in my bag.  

I woke up drunk, I slept sound. We ate stale toast and jam. The sun was high, on Saturday, at 8am. Time slipped through my fingers. 

I vomited chocolate milk. We humiliated ourselves for a cause, just cause. My elder threw herself, at a man, blew up a condom, insulted her husband. They gave us one free beer. One half-price pie.

We smoked in the cold for two hours. My lip bled. The cabby was from Sussex, the hot water broke.  The lights wouldn't work. We spoke about our homes.

Three of us wore heels. Two of us clicked. One of us was selfish. Time slipped through my fingers. 

I wished the hotel had a pool. I stole fruit, an apple and a pear.  We talked about the way men smell.  A man stole two sandwiches and I pretended not to notice, she made a racist comment.

I was honest, two sat backwards, two faced forward. We walked the lengths of the cabins looking for a Coke, a snack. She reapplied her makeup. It was colder than I thought, we walked. We took the bus. One headphone worked. I heard a song to remind me of last winter. A weekend over.

Time slipped through my fingers.  

wear the wool

i'll wear the wool and pull the petals over my eyes.

i'll pretend we'd never listened to b-sides 

ate clementines

slept through mogwai

and hated each other for pretending not to

want

the other

when winter comes again,

i'll just pretend.

trustno1

Illustrious as Moses, divine in desire.

rare as the sage.

the leader, the wise.

One would argue, 

the fabulist, the illusionist,

the liar.

Cross continental appeal.

Shortcomings spanned over oceans serene blue,

stretched deep as her fathomless floor -

nonetheless, continuously convincing the masses.

Suspicion of the inception,

persevering regardless,

for the tree proves fruitful for the season.

Apprehension would be blasphemy,

unless the truth rears,

and with wild eyes, we cease to believe,

all we have.
For, to live in him is to exist,
and doubt would be death.

N O N E W Y E A R.

The temperature boasts tepid 

a most exciting adjunct to this new year, 

the weather in Scotland seems the only warm front.

Traditional thoughts could not promulgate a more bitter frost.

There is a mirror to capture my exterior,

to cast the length of my frame, 

anew and ripened for Springs arrival.

Though, my complexion argues, 

its likeness barren.

Worn from winds of a previous locale.

January's mistress emits ennui.

A sexual storm has calmed,  only a light snow lingers,

but the task at hand reflects a thin veneer,

a cerebral black ice. 

This proves to be yet another desire to just slip my mind.

king & queen.

the poorly timed delivery. 

the scottish snow, nervously gazing at the window 

a limpid picture, our television screen.

the bedrooms view, for a king & his queen.

for, what a vision it was,

powder drifting in time with the melody, 

cascading to coat the earth, 

purity.

wrought with contradiction

we're frozen.

possessing a heat to melt the ice, 

these divine minutes,

a moment 

to write home about.

in the thick of the sin,

foreign skin touching the born and bread,

breaths placed accordingly.

we breed the ruins. the death of a monarchy,

the end of an era.

at least the world appears pretty as we lie.

eyes to our sky, watching it,

all fall down.

It's, not even Christmas.

at least I've got a home, the wife & child down below, cooking three square meals that always seem to smell similar.
she must use the same spices each time she prepares a dish.
I dine with the walls, I get crumbs in the bed.
I dress.


They're pushing her to have children.
She appears to be accustom to the pressure.
It seems especially heavy around Christmas, and as the youngest in the room, with no thoughts of family in mind,
I can empathize.

Everyone is in a festive sweater.  I am in my usual black, my usual dress.

I cast my usual wide gaze and keep my usually closed mouth, closed.

They veer away from baring children and switch to a lighter conversation piece.  Avant-Garde galleries through out Chelsea, artists I wouldn't know, places I've never been.

Warm and inviting as these strangers seem, I am odd.

I sip Pumpkin Ale and steal Salmon Maki while they speak of things I couldn't bother to be concerned with, though I should take interest,

I am treated as family.

They know nothing of me, I am content with aloof.

I drink with the walls, heat from these bodies keeping me aware that I am surrounded by personalities in this room,

stories I'll hear, opinions I'll argue,

but unresponsive, comatose with a sappy smile, I'll stay.

Like this, as the evening wears on,

and some snob devours my pretzel,

I wonder, if I'm even clever enough for these walls.

I can hear them snicker.