three poems.

1.

she always left
scrunched up tissues
and golden, ghostly whisps of hair
inside the squalor of late morning
bed clothes.

2.

it's like the hot whale backed tarmac
when a fleet of barbaric rain droplets
exhaust themselves upon impact.

it's the skin at confession
repenting for sins so unpleasent
even our follicles are looking the other way.

it's a delinquent twinge
passing through the
slammer of a stretched, taut canvas.

a supernova trying to escape a coke can.

3.

These were the shows
we last watched together;

Come Dine With Me

An old-funny-haired Top Of The Pops

Countdown

(you were angry when I laughed
because you were out mathed by that
“bitch Carol.”)

And

A variety of antique shows.

So
when Dickinson
transcends,
opaque-tangerine,
self-assured gleam
filling the room,
I shall turn off my TV screen.

If old men choose to
groom daimond rings,
rural paintings
or perhaps
terracotta chickens

i’ll tune out to save my
chest collapsing.

Worst case scenario?

Beatle’s memorabilia.

Do you know why?