poems

Black

Crisp pearl seafoam

Swirled

Onto the burning coals

Of your almost empty

Paper Chalice

 

And when your Aphrodite

From within the froth

Curved to find

The Jukebox

From another century

Your softer shoes

Walked into the 80s

 

Your soul

Singing in blacker eyes

Making your

Thin cup

Seem

Fuller somehow

Your hair

Seem

Longer now

And your face

Less

Pockmarked

 

How

You didn’t belong

In my coffee shop

This Wednesday

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poems

Sunday best

I pace

Throwing windows open

Moonwalking across rooms

Playing a jarring melancholy that hums along the floors

Staring back at my dry aesthetic

Ripping through cloth to find the right lie

Thrust in steam and scent

Molested with intoxication in older shades

Mona Lisa painting now

And then I pause

My feet forget how to pace

Standing high, jewelled

Breathing in the obscure lyric

Imagining a simulation

Where everything is the same

Except for me

And it looks so much better now

Quieter how

This is probably what Van Gogh’s left ear felt like