Think of me

 

Do you think of me,

by candlelight

in the flickering

embers of the heart?

Do I cross your mind?

Could you open up and speak?

Even in a whisper, a please,

sighed in silence

to the moon that

you see. Whispers seeking

me somewhere

in your midnight sky.

 

Do you dream of me?

When those blinds drop

and the curtains billow

over the mental stage show.

Am I pacing stage right, or am I

standing under a spotlight

holding the audience enthralled?

Do you dream at all?

And do I wander those hallowed halls?

Teasing my fingers

lovingly across the walls.

 

Do you listen for me?

In the aching

of the wind

sailing

through your

seascape mind,

and do I seem to be sinking or soaring?

Are the thoughts hopeful, warming?

Do you hear my voice

in the way the heavens

speak mystically?

And do songs paint a picture

in your mind

that you can’t unsee?

Do you see the swirling skies

unveiling a heart that can never die?

 

For when I sit in silence,

when I listen to the duality

of day and night, I hear

your song singing to me.

It makes me see

the future I want for me.

 

And when I think,

I see ships afloat

like dancers on an ice rink,

swivelling and swirling,

in hopeful chorus flows.

 

And when I dream,

I see your smile

and the way you look my way,

the way your hair strokes your face

as gently as I desire

to trace my fingers

to the sweeping waves

that flow in hopeful

choral echoes.

 

And when I dream

I see your eyes,

and I never want to

open mine again,

whilst I see the beauty

I so wish to embrace,

So I dream of a wish,

a kiss whispered into space.

St George's knight

 

You paint yourself in your cross.

Red on white. St George's knight.

"It’s holy, right!?"

 

You spout on the news

"Were protecting the women"

 

Would that be the same women

that succumb to your daily abuse

when your football team lose,

when you've had a sip of booze,

when your gammon and eggs

are a little too loose?

Or the same women that

clean up after you,  picking up the bill

cos your money hasn’t gone through,

making your dinner because that

is below you?

"It’s a girls job, not something

a real man would do."

 

You say they are filthy.

 

As you sit, wallowing in your own

excrement. Shit son, you missed a bit,

no wait sorry that’s just the stains

from days already gone.

Whilst they clean themselves

down for the 5th time today,

but hey, it is they that is dirty, you say.

Whilst you flirt with the idea

of maybe giving yourself a quick

flannel wipe, and a spray of lynx Africa,

before joining the lads for a beer and a fight.

 

"I just have national pride, think of all

those people that died for our freedom"

Yeah, those same people you call names

and deride. Whilst you wouldn’t know

your arse from your elbow, let alone history,

as you march  in time with Farage’s fascist rhyme.

 

Or is it possibly cos you are an ape shaped pig?

Is that really why your so scared?

Trim the fat and all that’s left is just gas and air.

 

Wetherspoons on a Friday morning.

The devil’s own sausage party.

Out with the boys. Bring on the beer.

A lot of hugs for someone

that is scared of being seen as soft.

Scared to be called queer. Oh dear.

That is the smallest of your worries.

Well almost the smallest.

 

You and your crackhead

screw loose friends,

you’ve been out on the piss,

you’re like a diver with the bends

rising through lakes of hell

and it always ends with the sound

of cracked shells as your fists continue to land.

 

"Ooh you must be one of those leftie snowflakes.

You know, the news is all fake, right,

the world is flat, and boats are causing

waves upon our shores"

 

Here comes the same tired excuse for

using a fist to fix something not broken…

 

"Whilst you give applause,

and participation trophies.

What about us? There are no

white lives matter signs,

or sigh, straight pride.

This used to be a proud land.

Green and pleasant."

 

You say burning it to the ground.

Fires that you started, burning people

from house and home. Fascist scum

 

"You wouldn’t see us taking over

other lands, or basking in the sunshine,

of some foreign sands. Ibiza is Britain, right?

They have fish, chips and pies

and I’ll smother it in curry sauce. Nice.

Good English grub. None of that foreign muck.

Now give me another can of Stella, will ya mi duck?

Better make that 3. I need some courage of the Dutch.

They just announced a new mosque

being built down the city, I’ll be home in time for tea"

Seconds between

 

I don't have anywhere I'd ever rather be,

or anyone with whom I'd rather

share this moonlit view.

I don't have another life I'd rather

live within, or another sight

I'd rather see than you.

 

I'm happy to just exist

in this moment,

watching the starlight satellites

darting majestically across your eyes.

 

I don't have any words I need to say,

or any fears left within me.

I just want to feel your lips

pressed against mine.

To believe in something truly divine.

 

I'm happy to just exist

on the whispers you leave,

which taste of hope and feel like dreams.

To weave in dance through the air

that we breathe,

believing in forever and the seconds between.

 

And, in loving sighs, I only want to share

with the starlight of my life, every droplet of care

that rains down upon us.

Every word of insight sung silently

on sleepless nights.

 

I don't have anywhere I'd rather be,

or another pathway laid before me.

I only want to hear you talk and share

in the story of your life,

for when we walk side by side,

I feel like my heart is flying high.

I have no-one I'd rather grow old beside

as the sunlight rides the heavens

and our minds glide on the golden

currents of forever skies.