it was your idea
- to write letters
you saw it somewhere
somewhere someone gave some other a pot of words
and unless you had it too it was unfair
we were fresh as a new page in an age of scared
I was Charlie Bucket
opening with a tear
that first message won me
like a posted pair of undies
smothered me dumb deep inside the unseen
with my tongue creased
and my mind drunk at the beach
or in a ring fumbling for my feet
between each round being sponged down by the priest
at sundown I would reach
into your breath where I’d eat
or take early to slumber
for those nurseries of opium
I tucked hope in them, woke in them
walked every week they came in the slope of them
and at the podium of my pen I pressed
stood undressed
waved at my mess
and declared that every four seconds I think of you…
every four seconds I think of you…
every four seconds I think of you…
each stint with you on the end of my stamp
emptied the bank
scooped the pennies off the floor of my heart
and ended with thanks
you left me just blanks
and I’m firing them at all that followed you out the door
who knows what I’m crouching here for
maybe the ground can shroud me from yours
and you can ask around for your round of applause
find someone as compelled, as astounded by law
to be housed in his core
but I was a coward
I had one last letter to write
but by then I had climbed to the crest of your light
and my confessions that I’d sketch you turned trite
while I rested a second shadow had crept into sight
so I left you that night…
you loved me through little lines that caged that whispered time
when I touched your hand and you gave me your ribs to climb
I’d never discovered a belly I needed more
Mi amor, I drew you pornographic pictures
and it was sweet
and I coloured in your feet
O Lauren, I cannot sleep
it was your idea
- to write letters
to bruise, to blind, to make your memory relentless
to lipstick stain, to stick, to construct an empress,
to bottle, to reign, to paralyse senses
to magnify, to terrify, to adjectivize endless
‘To Lori, I hope you’re smiling J’