It’s 6:20 and my hand sleeps.| The coffee cup it grips drips blackness | making of a stain the geography of a nation.| A clutter of crows clatters and chatters | feathers lighter than the weight of dreams | I once opened doors to | applied for on tightly typed forms | in a certain style | in an Italian suit maybe.| In a wilderness of grey | I watch you | wanting you and your onion smile | wanting you delivered in a basket | no tedious seduction | no play or foreplay | no driving distraction | no church pew beef to chew no special glue.| Just you.|
And all the while away in sundried heaven | as I watch you as coffee drips and crows clatter | a blind man takes out a new lease on his wife | with flowers maybe | red pasted and spray painted | to buff her daily drudgery | to make him shiny and new | to make her love him until she goes.
Late in the night just gone | a stolen TV flicked a flash of green | onto the wall of a painted bus | the window framing dead doll-heads | waxen targets for the day’s detritus.| Watching you | I wanted you and your onion smile | your meat delivered by the hushed rush of traffic | by the functionality of business | by a tee shirt with three smiley faces | by a belly unbalanced by tribal tattoos | by a hairy arsed goon | by a woolly hatted sperm-head taking 70% of your fee.| I wanted you alone | one click one flick | and your eyes bounced a bedroom glow | fingers burned black as art school charcoal | and I fingered a dark downy smudge | smuggled from down between to your navel | cut in a certain way | from a wilderness of flesh | in an Italian style maybe.|
And all the while away in sundried heaven | as I watch you as heads explode as fingers burn | and I consume a pretty piece of your soul | a blind man bids good morning | asks if Friday has come at last | notices it isn’t a question | shrugs at the coffee machine | and decides against flowers.|
Other works by Rod McRiven: Swell