it was near the river,
when we heard thunder,
echo of a broken sky.

i smudged the colours
on your neck, blurred
those painted edges
while jotting highlights
to your eyes – wince
and sit, glancing down
at water popping up
all along the river.

you sat with me
while you ran away.


i’d found stone rock bench platform plateaus
where you used to drink your coffee    cigarettes
and laugh at passers-by, sitting on yourself
occasionally eyeing an old-styled frieze
of judgemental swords and curling lips,
half-wondering what shiny sparking floors
hid inside grey white smog smoked walls.

you’d complain about the square
forever being full of something,
usually people, sometimes markets
utterly refusing to let the space be
and your smoking spot’d be stolen
by wooden huts hawking mushy peas
or mulled cider or chocolate tools

she’d sipped at broken wine,
minding her skin on the glass,
she’d told me it made more sense
when you were bruised, when
beautiful tiredness burst
behind your eyelids and cracked
your wrists with all the fury
of what you’d wished you could say.

on days like those we could lie
about the beauty in everything,
but now we can only tell the truth.


splitting pages into fragmented
description of broken things,
cracks run vein-like over
every face and surface
but they act unblemished,
flashing white teethy smiles
while their face bursts
into a thousand void-like cracks
spitting nebulae over pale skin.

“Colour’s Burned”

It was decided to take colour
and cast it upward around behind
inside and out; to roll thoughts
through it, dyeing and dying
and changing and feeling new
feelings, all from colours burned
on the insides of eyelids
on the precipice of ignorance
on lovely words trapped within lips
on broken breaking scarred backs
and all forgotten things.