The River (poem of mine)

There is a river,
One which flows like the lines
On the palm of our hands,
One which holds
A secret
Quite like yours
And quite
Like mine.

There is a river,
One which casts brightness
On the shade of the trees,
One which holds my body
Like a leaf.

There is a river
That I visit
A place to escape
A place of cold embrace
A place of rain
And birdsong
In a day of quiet
In a day of empty anger,
Of confusion.

There is a river,
A long swirl
Of blue chaos
That puts my mind to sleep.

Talking to you on a Sunday morning (poem of mine)

Understand
That I sway
Red and raw
When you talk to me
And inside fire burns
To smoke
And I hear the whistle
Of its embers.
I am distracted,
But,
I try to hold your gaze,
Try to untangle
This vineyard of escape
In my brain,
I drift
to lift a branch
And see eyes,
Heavy behind the purple of the grapes.
I drink the wine of your skin
And lay still
I turn my head away
Then back to you
We talk
Like old friends.
Air buzzes
Electric
As a hive
Weighed down with honey.

Look away, Look above. (poem of mine)

Your hands are on me,
I try to show light in my eyes.
Open wide,
Open wide.
Blink.
I am alive,
I am alive.

Slowly crawling down my limbs,
Down my limbs,
I anticipate heat.
No warmth,
No warmth from me.

I am cold,
Cold
As a broken generator,
Cold
As a corpse.

Hands on me,
Hands on me.
Palpate flesh
In your fist.
I look to the ceiling
For escape.

I feel eyes.
Real eyes.
Palpate.
Mouth.
Hands
feel like rigor creeping over me.
Ceiling,
Blink.
Espionage,
England.
Love,
Hate.
Escape,
Blink.
Escape.