Tyrannical poundings on your sun-stroke face

Blossom, you said,
blossom from the blameless form
you love to flaunt and caress and hold.

As your eyes held his
you'd whisper,
angel, let this be true,
let it all be true
and I shall never speak again.


But Dear Heart, you are too cold and too blue
for any good to come from your self-confessed
warblings
(your poetry, the language
of Princes and knights,
you would proclaim idly
on the leave-strewn pavements).


We are beyond this world.
We are free free free and loose
and can't carve out pumpkins
or strange pockets filled with jewellry
and robin feathers.

Feathery delights.
Crowded rooms,
brothels,
dens of imagery too obscure to love.


We might as well admit it, angel,
I reply.
We were born too early
and we'll die too young,
but we can always think of the timeless times
we'd wait,
jumping over cracks and each other,
outside the grey grey school
neither of us particularly hated.
(we wished we did,
because the idols did,
they were bullied and thrown
and dismissed,
but we were never that neglected
and it hurt)



We were the mistakes,
and you can never accept that.