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Sometimes Things Just End.

It’s been two years, since we slept like
lovers hands intertwined, laced together
as if stitched with thought.
Since sunlight pierced the scene of ash trays
spilling, morning sweat pooling in our curves,
Your breasts on my back.

Your breasts in the bath gathering suds while
I'd mash the mash, stir the gravy and sing along to
‘I Love to Love' by Tina Charles;
Then clink to us, on a sun...

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Orange County.


While his hands discovered the matter
of my hair, tangles between,
He closed his eyes and I could see
the focus in his lips, the soft curl,
The cold concentrated precision-
Like sucking on an orange piece.

The sky was peach, the beach bare,
Vibrant horizons each corner that
closed us in and
the dusk hung in time holding it all,
Like my head was held in his hands.


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I stare at your back, as if a portrait

hung to study. 
Bare, I stroke it where it is open as
you snore.
Touch freckles and moles with stealth. There,
I shut my eyes when you wake and sneeze,
I open them again when you fall back to sleep,
Watch as your lips gather the white
sticky dregs of the night,
I wish I could taste it.

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Evenings, when in love with an artist.

Whilst he unfolds the meaning
of it all, with colour,
I find it all in him.
But watch and
(of course) grasp and consume
with bare palms,
pockets of his pondering exhale,
that lay wondering in the air.
Just to taste
for a moment, what it is like
to unfold the meaning of it
all with colour.

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Just the three of us.


Frightfully aware, my bejewelled, dripping self,

Poses with tact, care and accuracy.
Swaying my legs on the counter
within the tide of your kitchen, 
seductive and subdued,
damasked in moonlit icey hues 
and slices of your blinds half shut.
You stand between my thighs unfazed,
palms on my skin
lacing our air with cigarett...

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No More Page 3

Sunny mornings spent alone,

Calls for news named as such,

Yet scrawled careless between
pages isn’t news so much - 
‘Britney’s back with a hit!’
‘She’s 19 and she’s got tits!’
‘Chris and Gywneth finally split!’
I scrabble hungry for underestimated wit,
Yet,  between licking and flicking I find this is it-
An incredulous, shameful, ...

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You're always going to miss someone,

So whats the need in worry?

You're always going to yearn for them,

So why heal in such a hurry?


You're always going to miss someone,

That's what a heart is for,

To thump and remind you daily,

The reason you were born.


You're always going to miss someone,

That's how your body works,

Regardless of your mighty strengths,


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Reluctant Return.

I saw you from the plane, as it tilted in the sky,
Parting the red sun, your flashing light
Draped in pink polluted clouds between,
My city, air, home, you’re seen.

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I’m never going to be thirty,
I’m never going to win,
I’m always going to wonder,
If I’m ready to begin.
I’m never going to be thirty,
My years should always stick,
Beheld at twenty,
With youth a plenty,
And wild hearts fast and thick.
I’m never going to be thirty,
My body cannot change,
So a splendid birthday party,
May you not arrange.
I’m never g...

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I found out three days too late,

that she was sick and on her way to

saying goodbye.
I was away, and missed her paws
pad into her cage, which, I guess,
we will now sell to a stranger
with a new addition to their family.
It’s strange now it’s just us three.
I wonder why I let it get to me,
all the pee on the carpet,

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355, Flat 2, at 21

I remember, sat tracing spirals
with a heavy foot as she chopped
courgette, hissing from the pan,
“Wack abit more garlic in love”
Quote notes tacked on the wall,
Silly ash droppings on the floor,
"Must sweep that before mum comes”
“Who stole my last slice of bread?”
Flame haired flatmate running late and
running out.
“Yes it does matter!”
(I found maggots in t...

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Cherry Blossom droops
As spring showers fall heavy,
Sunshine is wilted.


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Sweaty streets condense
Into rain trodden pavements,
Cities drip through fall.

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haiku seasons

I Saw Myself!

I saw myself, just now!

As old as possible,
Knickers bagging
My tena sagging,
soggy too.
Sweating, heaving mid-june,
Stinking of patchouli and piss,
Marlboro breath allowing a hiss,
But no more,
My tired limbs are painfully sore!
Not one for floral but I am draped,
A cardigan stained with HP was
always my fate.
The crevices I bear, you may reach
your arm t...

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Youth age

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