lost-in-a-bit-of-Russian-translation
I was asked
What do you mean about This Music?

with a smile then

What do you mean about This Music?

with a raise
and a crackle of flash
(think sparks here)
she'd caught that slightly
confused
I-am-European-too, but glazed,
face,
forever amused on her camera lens

Pirate writing

she said to me
"when it's plain sailing,
you can't write"
so does this mean
it's gone choppy?
and am I able to
pinpoint the rough,
like pirates
like trawlers,
stealing and dredging
for the things that might make them whoop in gratitude
because now it's plain sailing for them?

when you Look at me I wonder
what it Is that you are thinking
through your Eyes and through your breath.

are you Happy saying nothing
lying wistful in your thinking
dancing In that time we met?

or are you Cooking little pots
of thought
that We might be the best?

If there can be
If there is
A Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy: And Other Stories
are there
is there
A Despondent Loss of Lobster Girl: (And Other Stories too, obv.)

Or if we could be
A Medieval Master of Love, like Ovid,
why should we turn our subjects of admiration, pet,
into cheap translations of the Silver Age
when all he wants is some future hope for his eternal devotion?
Poor guy.

Maybe he should've written some Other Stories!
Y'know, like, spread himself out a bit...

we'd have to imagine everything
perfectly so that it's snap.

you can sit on your cloud,
me on my bean bag
and if you like
I'll remember You
and if you like
i'll let you remember me.

I'd prefer it if you could tingle
down and sit here too,
but as long as your cloud is
silver and lined for you, sweetheart,
I don't mind that you've gone.

she gave me this book...
I never thought I'd write!
or maybe that lovely girl knew
best,
that the pen would run away
(like the dish with the spoon)
and little lights would come out
onto my page

the noughts and crosses stayed.
they were etched there, smudged there so that
we could all see
how their roads were spent

it made me smile.
are we there yet