Not the delicate hint of rose’s
petals curled, faded edges of brown.
Chairs scrape along the cold hard floor
people leaving before their final
curtain call.
Everyone is hustling, and bustling
towards the exit door.

Outside the gods decant the rain so
lavishly, yet my mind is set to barricade.
The dream I never dream
enters centre stage – oh, you would be
amazed at the things that don’t exist
inside my head.
Dispossession has rented a room
fused the lights and resides in gloom.
I feel like a foreigner inside my own space
can’t understand the language, so I
sign instead.

Once someone told me they carried
a dead relationship around with them,
I laughed how bizarre, yet here am I
waving to aliens in the sky.
Sometimes they take away the flowers
morning noon or night it matters not
the hours.
For they never take the blooms that died
secure inside my hand –
The bell rings – end of term – let them
all go home
as once again my mind is set to barricade.
I keep no happy memories locked
inside – so there is
nothing left; to fade and die…
Written about and for a close friend who suffers from depression.

Poppy 2013 ~xx~


I slip absent
for time does eat into the past –
as further and further, I wander from all memories mind.

The sun, has yet to burn away the undulating mists.
They, they are sleeping still, about their bed
my white fists old

want to stir their innocent heads.
Yet I let them linger a little longer
or is it they, who now refuse to hear my calls.

They are to blame for what I have become
and they know it.
Once I was the one, ever near her side
crooked in arms that held me tight.

These are the thoughts that
kill, kill kill…
Darken to tarnish my green hills of home.

Yet, I am not home
nor will I ever be again.
I am here; fallen – somewhere unknown
leaving me reflective in the pit of my darkness
as gusts of unnatural slaughter, feed my long devoured
brainless life.

Is it wrong to want to leave her broken?
Pin my pain to her living life
Let her eat her scrambled eggs
give smiles to the man now sitting by her side.
What should she suffer of my terrible cries
for war is all consuming
but losing her is a pain
that reaches out beyond the realms of my
senseless, untimely lonely death.

Poppy October 18th 2013 ~xx~

Il m’a fait un bisou…

I am alone, restless within my twisted sheets
sleep – does not permit me  the ease
to merge into the night.
You painted me pictures –
wrote me stories about moving on.
No bended knee promises; only a man making plain
his reasons to be gone.

The flowers you presented me, are each speechless.
Cold bygone relics;
wrapped up in their culpable scent.
They grasp their own acceptance
heads drawn towards the new days light.

I ask, of time:
face me not in the eye, today.
Tomorrow I will try, to make myself move on!

Yet if corners are to be turned
then let them be, where we can meet.
So once again I can say….
Il m’a fait un bisou
though I’ll accept, being just your friend… –

Poppy October 15th 2013 ~xx~

Long Legs…

You have me pinned, in vivid splodges of bold
upon your canvas centre stage.
I look happy – yet some would say, what false representation this is.

I sit straight backed, legs astride an old wooden chair.
You have given me roses in my hair
long tanned legs – only to stop; where the painting meets its end.

My old summer dress;
tantalizes curves I have never once possessed.
You always knew how to souk the narrative for its worth
your bill of sale, proposing me one afternoons sitting –
currency on trust.
Yet for many moons since; have we softened each others palette?
No malevolence, just an agreeable resident
sharing your once, masculine personal space.

Friends, enemies anyone who can – does…
calling you an exhibit.
I like that you know, your sexual worth.
How you cajole, that the epitome of my body is not
to be governed by what my clothes do not cover.
You, my teacher have taught me well.

They; well they can:
adorn their monotonous days, like some pleasure starved dry bones.
I prefer mine, with a river of infatuation, coursing its way through them.


Poppy October 10th 2013 ~xx~


We walk – apart
as autumn blusters her calling pipes.
Red berries huddle the Holly trees
their arms out stretched before them
No symmetry –
No sound –

We stand – apart
dead as elms
our words slowly resonating calm.
I need to lick the doubt from your eyes
sow new my pledge of spring.

It is no effort to want your love
allowing your perfume to strike my lungs.
See how the apple red, still clings in hope
for to fall would damage, its tender skin.

Is there a beginning in this, our end?
You answer –
turning to leave me – alone…

Poppy October 6th 2013 ~xx~


The light is set to early Summer,
performing her games of hide go seek.
I think of you often caught between the gloss
and brittle bones, of lovers past.

Tequila are the sunrises; rattling
chinks of treacherous ice.
Dead bodied whiskey slammers,
red cherried parasols for the ladies, ring pulls,
for the uninspired man.

Hedonistic days drift upstream
sucking on their ambition
far  into the night.
Contaminated air –
laden heavy to breathe.
As we like lizards on heat
slide elongated from our rock.

I have captured the silence
of your body’s landscape.
Spaces carved deep; forbidden,
untouchable, far out of reach.
I would be ruined to tell you I miss you:
Just believe, you are a  hard habit to break…


Poppy October 4th 2013