The Temple

Two boys in a café
talking about how much they mean to each other.

They are in the cavern of their eyes,
on another planet, underground,
-water, -mantle.

Their heartbeats prance around like the voices of bats.

Inside, they’ve built a temple
to which they return
whenever they have had enough
of the big city lights, and the burn
of glassy shopfronts.

They inhabit the temple.

No. They are the temple.

The roof, the marriage of their ribcages,
the leg and arm bones the columns;
the space below filled with their loving
stretches, every day, into new dimensions.

No need for quantity; deeper than quality.
All they need is amity, loyalty, sanctity,
which are as gold as they are silent.

The temple is strong and brave.
One sees chips in the paint and mould in the wood.

The boys once hurled hot acid at the ceiling and walls
but the temple remained. It stood.
It would only fall if they ran out of blood.

The temple is alive and lit by torches
but people walk by and ignore it.
All the better for the boys.
Nobody enters, nobody knows.

At most, some peer through the frosted glass
to squint and sniff: nobody

but a cave, stuffed with treasures
picked up from a nomadic journey:
in-jokes, daisy-chains, pearls of kinship.

The boys choose the Gods and the statues of worship.
Today it’s fruit pastels, cult movies, champion boxing moves.

Stick them all over, roll out the glow-in-the-dark starry wallpaper.
Make a den in the corner with pillows and downy duvets.

The boys can be scared around other people.
They don’t like people knowing they’ve a place of hiding.
Their bodily building. The temple.

People will see us transform
from flesh and human form
into the bricks and stones
of Pandora’s palace.
Our home, majestic. Warm.

The boys lock eyes; they disappear.

All that is left is granite, sun and drought,
and a bulletproof doll-house.

Don’t Slam the Door

Poor lady and her family
on the ground floor,
waiting each day
for the slam of the door:

swinging out from a hand,
it hurtles like a man,
frenetic, carnivorous,
blood-thirsty, murderous,

a force of terror
let loose on mankind.

Deaf, dumb, blind.

Marionette / Energy

Marionette

Knowing I’m a puppet
bobbing along the canal,
Someone’s pulling on the strings
controlling my wheres and hows.

I feel I have some say
on how to hold my arms.
Even at the mercy and sway
of unforeseen harms.

Rest assured,
I can resist
the forces in my wrist,
but not enough to break that solid grip.
Rotating fist.

Marionette overlord.
I can’t find you in me.
But, I hear your footsteps!
Pounding the balcony.


Energy

Somehow it’s much more simple
to style myself in ink
than play those notes,
and hear my voice
drowning
in the sink.

I’ll wait for notes – Enter my head!
– but hear these words instead.

I seem to love notes
less (much less)
than muttering words in bed.

Don’t get trapped within yourself.
I promise!
I’ll look beyond my eyes.
But really,
I feel much safer on the page
than in my musical lies.

I feel more present when I write
than when I play violin.

I feel like I can show the world
the girl that lives within

the spectacles and photographs
suffering from lethargy,
until words come to rescue her.
Dancing. Energy.


Since I read Kate Tempest
I can’t help but rhyme my words,
and structure them in rhythms.
Pretty chirping birds.