Insomnia on a midsummer’s night


On a soft and silent summer’s night
the air is too still for anything.
There is a living garden
growing out of control out my head,
aromatic buds and tempting tendrils
tangled up in hydroponic fractals,
bastard molecules busying about
with their insatiable flitting and scratching
fleeing and returning to prod and probe
the tender buds and tendrils
irritating bone and tendon
fucking molecules.

Now and then they gather up to form
an avatar of black obsidian
to mark my anniversaries.
But the little bastards
fail to coalesce, and scatter
before I can be reborn.


Secret garden

Songs of the Everyday

You always do this, she says,
as he smiles victoriously
with the teaspoon between his teeth,
knowing well that it tastes sweeter
stolen from her cup.

He watches her undress
from behind his fingers. She knows it
but she knows he cannot reach.
He knows he could
but the forbidden polaroids are sweeter.

We never do this, she says,
eyes closed as he strokes her hair and face.
They know it is a stolen glimpse
through the keyhole
into the secret garden.