Last Dance

You were a low-slung
holdall of hot tears
in my useless arms

like those strained bags
of fairground goldfish –
ones eventually flushed

Not my choice of dance
either – in an empty place
at this time of life –

too much to yearn
after your choosing
of others’ routines?

Another unasked
question left to quell
as my discomfort rises

Seller’s remorse kicks in
as you consider my
boxed up possessions?

Do not answer me
and score higher points
of pity from our audience

Let me leave untouched
without your wept stains
on my dropped shoulders

as salted marks of high rank –
which you had removed
in a previous court-martial


Slept

This hushed hour is mine
around our slept-still house

as tea scabs to cold in that mug
beside my half-empty bed –
my asset of sleep is long lost

Me – not being cocky enough
to walk outside and scratch
at this started day’s waking

Me – not wanting to unearth
all that has been lost overnight

Yesterday’s quitting of clothes
is bared evidence of my new ways

now there is no inquisition
or other solutions – I love it

Such sluttery no longer matters

These Players

There are no long embraces –
no more slowing of time
by a hold on your intimacy –
or by those so-silent
acknowledgements
No unsaid understandings
by affection’s expressions –
none by a raised eye to mine

There are no looks in poor light
between slowly rolled reveals –
none from behind your kabuki’s drop
to show last acts and dull speeches
by your poor choice of leading man
to your bloodied hack of a queen –
an actress dressed by quickened lies
wearing arsenic in her makeup

Cat Walk

Your frore perfidiousness
has been widely sighted –
Janus-faced – a sour-mouth
denial to your being faithless

Every falsity is perfectly stitched
like your long green winter coat
It cost you a almost a grand –
but in it – you do look dog-cheap

One more label-sucker with cash
paying for sweat-sewn favours
of brow-wept stains of labour –
swiftly removed before it hung

in that so-air-conditioned
West London designer shop
in which you fell in love –
again – with spending pounds

and such a fattening potential
in your Cath Kidston purse
Now my tired wallet thins
by my loss of handsome cash –

my dried-out high tarn
of once-endless funds –
It is no longer filled enough
for your own satisfaction

You wore your virent purchase
to our first mediated meeting –
I swear you were sweating
as you walked out – in green