Year
All tagged bristol poets
The scaffolding is a skeleton around the house
it’s holding us together,
rib after rib of humans, living.
someone is dancing on top of my head,
stomping hearty laughs about the place
as tunes swoon in misty kitchens.
I’m trapped in the underbelly.
In this bog basement
throwing rocks at my reflection in the window
Voices are fluid,
tumbling over words,
caught at the corner of mouths longing for connection.
The murmur of tongues loosened by cold pints - sun snatched minutes in coats on benches.
The sight of groups of bodies.
in this space with you,
skin on skin, touching.
tuck me under your wing,
this soft-cottoned night
these smudges of time
are beautiful nothing
- just the sight of you,
hair skewiff, star-fishing
Passion cuts things to pieces
like a shard of broken mirror
that warps a once soft reflection
into jagged shreds of light and skin.
Feel the hot flesh pulse
and flinch in momentary madness.
This transient touch
melts dignity like wax
and bleeds out restlessly
like a beacon of sordid wants.
Bite the lip of sensuality
and bury the questioning mind
under grappled skin and wet hopes
of subdued loneliness.
Tiredness is something worn on the head,
the never-ending wrap
of selfish fog,
it renders you blind,
hangs, with limp hostility around the brain,
dampens the synapses,
mutes the mind.
Has your tender soul
ever been crushed
like a peppercorn
in a pestle and mortar?
Well let me tell you,
a pinch of you
can ignite fires
on the wettest of tongues.
