Wednesday, 28 March 2012

A possible explanation for the writer's death plunge from his second floor window

I can see the crosshair in this window
it’s has it’s sights on me,  you see
the sun, has it in for those who hide
inside, tapping out their fantasies
like one of many monkeys

I’ll turn these keys into sails then
open windows to a breeze
and dodge the bullet, escape incarceration, 
dance daft into Spring air lent 
summer’s warmth by the accident 
of an island then suddenly free 
I’ll fall 

because I live on the second floor. 


I was looking at the inside of a shoe
when you came up and kicked me with bare feet

they were soft as crabs, 
and bony like bad meat.

It didn’t hurt and there was no insult taken
even if it was meant,

So I bent down to kiss your bleeding toe,
as you said; no.