I was tiptoeing through the unfettered forest
when a meek whisper soothed a sound –
the voice of a seraphim ushering around.
its eyes pure white, injected with snow,
transfixed on their resonant glow,
he took me under a blanket of light,
shielding my corpse with god’s valiant might.
questions with answers before they were spoken,
the fire within me – ignited? awoken?
he spoke in tongues, the language of heaven,
draining my actions, my words so malevolent.
he took me by his frosty hand
leading me through the forestland,
an evolution of love previously unknown,
no longer allowing days to pass by alone.
your blood brings life to his form –
melting the heart that cradles the storm.
the wood is dark, enigmatic with discovery
as you skip a relapse, diving straight into recovery.
how could this cherub translate actions
based on inexplicable fractions?
a lunar cycle later, gazing at the crater queen
you understand that he isn’t the immaculate pristine,
a walk around the wood fooled your pretty heart
into a misconceived kick-start.
one day you let him slide, his frosty hand slips from your grip
and offering you his snow eyes, you can’t refuse to take a sip
of something once known,
a way to remember, that you are not alone.

Pete is a Laugher – from the moment he clocks in, until the moment he’s cashing up and out of the door, all you’ll hear from his pert lips is the dirty cackle of a boy who seems to have his life sorted. His limp wrists and Miss Priss attitude led me to make That Decision the first time I met him, as he cocked his head and kick-started a conversation revolving around teenage debauchery. Pete is not a Stunner, or a Head Turner, but standard in the looks department, doing more of his making up in the personality department. Quick wit and a love for Justin Timberlake has me giggling alongside him, wondering why I never had a friend like this before. The opportunity to discuss attractive men with another man has never occurred in my lifetime without me wanting to slap my counter conversationalist. Tonight was a radical change.

Found Textures

A constipated dog with a passion for gay boys slides onto your bed, her withering frail figure gliding onto the fresh, virginal sheets barely touched. A smell exudes from her awkward position and you notice her backend barely touches the ground, trickily bobbing between the abyss of air and the reality of matter below her. You stir and move sharply because the phone rings, as if by routine, at 09:59, the loud whoop whoop of the caller’s attention ringing through cranial matter. It continues its emergency siren until you stumble; arms outstretch for the offending object and wearily begin conversation with an entity that has been flicked onto repeat. Words over and over, whilst you say okok, and hang up.

The smell hits you harder than the putrid stench of a roast dinner you once found in the fridge, two weeks after it’s original date, untouched by the human hand (although not by other creatures.)

And you realise that, those sheets? They ain’t so white any more – more a deeper shade of a dinghy 60s communal house, the smears spitting psychedelic patterns. Brown on white, you follow a sporadic trail that leads you to her feeble body and her rigid, uncomfortable figure. You think of the baby you found, its wings so small it resembled a cherub, delicate skeletal features so minute and barely formed. You recall its bloated belly, the soft hairless skin of a ceased animal curving into the sky as if to be asking back the gift of life. As you push its stomach gently, you hear the last breath of a life seep into the atmosphere, becoming a funeral director for the animal kingdom.

You collect petals on your days off, scouring the crisp grasslands for wilted onion skins in a variety of colours – purple stripes, the soft intricate patterns offered by a once flourishing crimson rose. Your feet are dirty in the dusty mud of someone else’s front garden, your hands darting around thorns for treasures of aesthetic beauty, each one possessing its own blooming uniquity in style. A pocket full of petals, and that’s always going to be the boy you are.

What do you see?

Sandscapes - What do you see?