Drowning Daffodils.

You begged to go swim –
to sleep
deeply, of the fish and ocean.
So slowly with the rising of the tide
we sank to our knees, dancing
for reasons of know, knowing.

We had a love house
flooded plains, hidden from
the fat eyed women and flat capped men
who sat outside, beside their view of life
wagging their
tongues, of debased woe.

Remember when they found us, seaweed
rolled – with hair a mess and features
Didn’t I say – we needed to rise

but instead we kept on dancing
far beyond those fields of
golden, swaying daffodils…


Graffiti On The Train

I think I’ve had enough

gonna get myself a drink
before chiselling out your name
upon the passing subway wall.

You can verbalise me down
send my dreams nowhere bound
along with your, rough edged
explanations –
kicking hard against my reasons.

Why don’t you try to make me stay
plant me flowers – wild sown.
Colour out those visions of scenes once viewed
from dirty, bedroom windows
whilst sleeping all alone.

Call me sometime, filling
in those lost, empty spaces.

Can’t promise to ever pick up
still too busy reading:

Our forgotten
graffiti on the train …


I stopped to pick the flowers today
mouthing the words
How appealing you all are
in your own way.

They held still – tightly grouped
citrus bright against the palm of my hand
yet still –
all I could smell was their black and white
dissension: shedding around my feet.


Poppy ~xx~
5th April 2015


Count me down
snap me open
show me life exists
outside these inconsequential walls.
Squeeze me oranges – physical in their consciousness.
Slay me dejection that slavers when it tastes defeat
stand the sentinel –
sucking underfoot of functions need.

Bring me gratification
tinged with vertebral transparency


Poppy Taylor October 2014 ~xx~


Spirals of glistening shade, recline serenely dappled
in their morning wraith-like haze.

Amid your twisted sinews, I am most graciously calmed
while pristine elaborate skies; ground
my oath, steadfastly to you

Kissed in passing by all manner of such gracile splendour
flower heads sweeping stately, in their lightness of touch.
Reflecting deep –
of the imagery that scurries the waters edge
asking of no permission, to stand still this day
draped in adult perfection – floating on a child’s eye;
of far flung surrealist imagination.

September 21st 2014 ~xx~

The Colour Of Sleep

We picked white roses
then as we slowly became undone, we threw
them at the waters edge.

We divided watching them sail from our view
for when something is over – it is the only thing to do.

You exiled me long ago; into those awkward empty spaces
allowing the summers heat to blister my back
whilst I alone, shaped the snowman’s smile.

I feast thoughtfully,
upon the last days of our freshness
distilling the taste of our uncorked laughter.

It could be any afternoon; in my wool buttoned
cardigan, fastened against the cold moist air.
I am not for connecting – time is but a clock ticking itself alone.
Rye bread and water, slip to bless these arterial walls
before the night
comes to tell me, that this is the colour of sleep.

Poppy September 13th 2014 ~xx~


You bite
full mouthed, like a rattle snake in masquerade
fatalities numbers gathering, in the course of
your sobriety

Can you swallow the sound of the truth?
Or are you absorbed  in my words of respect.
I never aspired to wound you – think me not your
butcher-bird perched on high waiting to assail.
As for all who loiter in the realms of your retribution
let it stand, how roses black, dressed in shaded vale
did decompose as a child filled her time –
waiting to be your Daughter:

Whilst sanguine nasturtiums, did weaken to
recollections of distant grey – only to wake outside
the believing of my childhood, extracting nothing
beyond  the liberty of my mind…

Poppy May 2014 ~xx~

Hells Nasturtiums

Measured interpretations
of me that unhappy child

Stripped exposed –
windward as the rowan tree
that blemishes
the scarlet berries.

Lemon scent, varied
with the smell of spoil.
Your breathe scolding
the space we inhabit.
Rare peaceful  interludes – like masked
intruders, infrequent in their callings.
The house always so full of thunder
as if violent red
Nasturtiums did ascend  their way:
from hell…


Poppy May 2014 ~xx~


Dancing is just a conversation
between two people
so dance with me – and tell me how you feel.

I would like to take you for a pizza
hire a taxi to take us to the moon
share my tea and buttered toast
then never to rise – until the
Swallows head towards their winter home

Always, always to wear the sweetest blossom
pungent in my hair –
to be there by your side seasonless in my desire

All this and more – I swear to you I would
if only you would dance with me
and tell me that you love me…


Poppy 21st April 2014 ~xx~