Fever Pitch
Gardens of the sun –
I need your fields to survive.
For plants to branch out.
This is the future –
Swim. They do not tell you this.
Wait for adulthood.
Then you will realise –
Backlit bare trees. Patios,
Girls found in Hades.
Barbecues and booze –
Stealing sips of dad’s whisky.
Birches that are cold.
Smelling the meadow –
You will lean against a tree.
Remember childhood.
Swim against torment –
You live with grief. Desire. Praise.
You play Say please me.
Gardens of the sea –
I need your schools of tuna.
Without meaning to say it.
Ongoing lighthouse –
You do not even know it.
The back of my hand.
Anticipating –
The green shoots in those regions.
Vines cry out for rain.
Open your journal –
He was going to kiss me.
He was my compass.
I touched the mirror –
Nothing can hurt your lovesong.
The landscape quivered.
The first word was sky –
The next ‘muddy blue arrows’.
Light. A myriad.
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Bottomland
I must unweave you –
Skeleton in the closet.
Slope. Forest. Prairie.
Milk fed hospitals –
Childhood of stars inside out.
The green creek rotten.
I saw a mountain –
Monarchies in your journal.
Woolf’s river. Ouse.
A lake of mud. Grass –
Seeds must be harvested.
Their veins like gulls.
Cool spoonful of reeds –
A growing feast in my hands.
Poking their noses.
I hold drums hostage –
Without even trying to.
Silent winter dreams.
Pinpricks of highways –
Lighthouses guide drunken boats.
Women like geese.
Ink. Cars in darkness –
Braille. Tender is paradise.
Driftwood never sleeps.
Starlight in your face –
I hold coupons in my hands.
They scrape my ghost heart.
Iris for a mouth –
Poppies fire governs the eyes.
Watch this thirst monster.
Look at shattered me –
I am speaking gobbledegook.
Veil dropped to ankles.
We are difficult –
Desire. Dark windows. Grief. Praise.
The bathroom mirror.
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Gretel
A word is a flood –
I nibble on loneliness.
It keeps me awake.
Songs of the river –
They are all grand souvenirs.
Sky the bluest glass.
Couples arm in arm –
Is this what love’s purpose is?
Earth answered. Yes. Yes.
I have maps of ruins.
It tells me things like the time.
I am a sentry.
Men make good husbands –
Not all men are bastards’ with-good-hair.
Many can love us.
I read my script –
Perhaps I have no ego.
It says here, ‘marry.’
I am in a play –
Half of it is wonderful.
I have a gun, hats.
Women like hats, guns.
Mountain air is like your face.
Cute. Paralysed joy.
Hearts are red balloons –
My laughter sounded hollow.
Dance away my man.
Devils. Pain marks you –
In ways, you cannot forget.
I triumphed like Sputnik.
Pleasure is the truth –
Chrysalis mystery self-portrait.
Tables. Apron strings.
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All poems © Abigail George
IMAGE: Sam D via Flickr
Lonely as ALWAYS.