In amongst all this packaging
I can feel you – the rip and tear of cardboard
and how you removed my clothes.
From the blue lines, the scrawled words,
I can trace your fingernibs
and unpluck your prints.
Touching the rough unstuck gum
I can kiss you
still.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Modern-Love-Flap-Pamphlet-Series/dp/190523337X/ref=ntt_at_ep_dpt_1/277-0759246-6082327
We took a journey.
After the drink
that somehow bridged our first hellos
then at night, as we attempted sleep,
the closed brackets of our bodies.
That night we carved new words in city stone,
bottomed glasses:
vodka and Diet Coke as our mouths,
judging, but kind,
spoke tomes
in the quiet move of Zygomaticus major
and minor
and more.
First, of nervous probing,
a smirk as you laughed twice at my voice.
Then, gentle,
making motions that predicated words.
I focused on your lips.
The words unsounded through a kiss,
spoke against snowdrift streets.
I will not ask your name
in case it becomes my new lullaby
turned over and over again.
I will not kiss you first
in case, pecked, it remains with me
a silent signature of your lips.
I will not dance with you
in case the drink blurs your face into my dreams
watching between Love and Like.
I will not tell you my hopes
in case you fall for those
and not for me.
I will not speak to you
in case your voice begins to merge
with the heart-drum in my chest.
I will not text you quickly
or leave you kisses
in case I begin to fall and fall.
Once,
I
met him
under a
vowel filled nighttime
of ohs, and yous, and ees, and Is.
Beneath the neon hued Can Club; just us, hands clenched tight
like crab claws. Mouths apart speaking of nothing, everything. The space between sighlences.
This is one of the poems I wrote on the Barbican Young Poets Scheme. It’s a Fibonacci sequence poem. In mathematics, the Fibonacci numbers are the numbers in the following integer sequence: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21. So we ignore the 0 and create a poem based around the rest of the numbers, each number being a syllable.
See here.
