This half way borrowed no-man’s land
of an attic suite
feeling so high, so bitter
on our correspondence
between truths in
this compromise facility
filled with rags, pets,
and uneaten takeaway foil.
Was it Indian or Italian love we had last night?
I only remember later my jealousy of your dreams
watching your eyelids flicker a future.
My own sleepless self
smoked on the balcony of this diced up lighthouse
above the Medusa wrangle of addictive tracks
running like bowels during the night
held by timetable glue
we all have our departure dates to think hard on
in our temporary tarot house
built with shards of light
from smashed glass
reminders of the latest fight
slamming doors and pirouette paper
strewn round the rugs like childrens’ drawings
in a Samson blinding day planning our exits
for a day, for a life, still somehow egging
for the child who’ll decorate
your own flat’s doors and fridge
Contrary or perhaps aware
of our listened to Walls and Bridges.
– Phillip O’ Neil