The aged, the convict and taster of things,
Looks not down the wine,
Complain of its Year; entertains no
Fear of spitting back into the glass;
Or let out through the arse muttering of class.
I present myself
As a tree of poetry
That, at uneven hours, in between lovers,
Flowers: it devours,
When paradigms shift when you sail
Like off the bat of Gayle, to me.
Life’s fond, long and
Enchanted fallacy where
A detached line. Lest you whisper in an ear and claim this is you.
Since you can never most ever
Endeavour to be entirely
Yours or mine…
I live the moments of your flirt
By Pur, symbol, by sign by sign.
Practice those charms
And pretend that in youth
The world will grant us all that we
Sideline as truth. Tomorrow’s shadow
Lingers my haze. Caught with your tail composed
Out of place.