Sometimes I think of what we could
And in my fantasy it’s always
But in reality
It may not have been
And the most beautiful thing of all about this
Is that you can be whatever you want
But my love for you is mine alone
Impervious to change
And it’s something I can hold onto
Because fantasies can never be broken
In the same way reality can
So my love can stay pure and innocent
In the same blossoming form it started out as
And I will never learn to hate you
Because a love that never truly happened can never truly die.
Tried out a new style of poetry today inspired by some of the instapoetry accounts I’m following at the moment. The fluid, undulating structure is meant to represent river currents and the fantasy, dream-like atmosphere of the poem. What do you think? Let me know!
On a side note, my novel ‘This Really Happened’ is free on amazon until 30/09. Would love it if you could download it! Thanks!
Black holes, fast cars
I walk off the edge of the platform
Chasing neon lights, the London
Eye swirling as it plays witness,
There are potholes in my mind
I am filling them with gravel from
Streets I’ve forgotten the names of
Subway station debris, this
lit-up nighttime metropolis
Bursting at its seams.
Flowers in Porto and
Pink-lit lanterns strewn above
City square stone, painted
Faces on outcrop walls
Fire in the sky and fire from
Inside, feet dangling ledges
Boats moored to hard edges
The view from the barricades
As you pulled me away
From the dancing bridge lights
From the streaming, flowing gold
From this city of angels and fear but
I’ve forgotten the lyrics to that song
And the lights will blow a fuse
In my head; they are burning
Through my vision, cars clamouring
in the late evening rush, headlights
Flaring like angry bulls as we weave
Back towards our starting point
Finding this city in ourselves
Folding over and over again
Running between traffic lights
Spinning between tramlines
Trekking up steep alleys for –
What are we looking for?
What is there here to find?
You ask me what your best quality is
And I tell you you’re a coconut eclair,
Average blue on the outside
Tropical sea foam underneath
Waves roaring to the surface
White sand beaches on sugar-coat shores.
But you say coconut is for
Hipsters and lost souls
Those who lack a refined taste
The commoners of confectionary.
You see yourself as a caramel swirl,
Endlessly smooth, filled with buried treasure.
And I, this is where I come in,
I am the green Bermuda triangle to your
‘life is a box of chocolates’ analogy
That mystery space on the map you
Just can’t pin down, alluring with my
Sharp edges and crackle-foil shields
Just waiting to be discovered and claimed,
Claimed and unwrapped, loved because
I am original and unique
‘not like the others’
A rare species, you call me.
But my three sides are a lie and
You mistook the shade of green I am:
I’m the average one, plain milk chocolate
Or vanilla fudge, family-friendly and
Comforting when you’ve had a bad day.
I’m not your green light and I’m not the
Disappearing space in your head that
You keep trying to navigate even though
The compass needle spins arcing circles
And the stars realign every time you look up.
I do not exist in your praline dreams
Soft centres and chewy toffee fillings.
I am alive, I am real and
I am here
Living out my fantasies in a
Broken little house on quality street.
To show my appreciation
Polite applause to the far-flung actors playing out their lives
On well-worn stages, patching cynicism into song.
To champagne-sipping businessmen in Armani suits
And their secret lovers, hidden away in this
Sprawling, living city.
To the angry politicians with their campaigns and ideas:
Words can make a nation, surely the poets understand that best
All holed up in little indie cafes
Trying to resurrect stanzas –
Oh, allow me to show my utmost gratitude for the
Busker in the underground at Elephant and Castle
Seeing through the walls into the grubby alleyways
That wind through London, tangled and knotted like yarn
Pulling, pulling the winter in because it’s always dusk in these alleys
And the light is speckled with grime and desperation –
All you need, really, is a little self-preservation
Because there’s never enough for those who
Hibernate in dumping grounds, who flash past closed shutters while
Stereo rap blares from BMWs and an Asian tourist’s prized camera goes click.
Taxi drop offs and cobble streets bridging too many gaps to cross.
Allow me to show my thanks
As I stand here and feel this great concrete heart pulse.