#PancakeDay

One day our spines’ll tesselate under sage soft duvets as storms sweep across us and no one will cry;
not one noise shall slip from tongues
‘cos strength comes from keeping quiet
or carrying on.

You’re a now realised kindness that doesn’t know what breath is
or how the north circular works in festive rush hours home,
but I’ll kiss the answers upon your tender carbon tapered chest and hope the toner never runs low
(your dad would’ve handcrafted every thing he knew in semaphore if he’d have pulled through,
but you’ll learn in time, too, that time does not ruin fewer experiences than being).

I lean in. Whisper this (above) across your one body,
three eighths the size of a coffee table hardback book:
the result of patience pined for
that I mimed along to motherhood the best I could for nine months
and now, here, I lift the hood and work out what to do next       in this rush to settle down and sit,
sip until you snooze off into silence.
Here I carry you and do not notice the weight,
stare at the gape of you, my newly framed little one held in the palm of my hand,
squat full four pinter named after someone we knew.
You landed lunar surface side up,
smoothed new to the toes
and I wonder how I’ll meet you
I wonder how this goes.

hidden poem at the end of the link

Somebody said you won't win.
And one day I'll find them
through thin, thick and better poetry than this,
sit them down and say

 There's a failure in death because it's rest,
 the ultimate lie in costing 16.95 a month
 and I don't want to not stop.
 I may only ever be four weeks ahead,
 and even then two at best,
 but I know where i’m going
 do you?

Check In

You caught me off guard with your questioning, but I do;
it’s true,
I’ve fallen in love with every checkout girl from here to Timbuktu,
further, down route To Kabara into Kabara itself-
yet to be mapped by Google’s street view.

Let’s change that. I’ll call the ground crew as you pack,
contact Harrison Ford to see if his plane’s still intact: we’ll be there by sunset.

Me? I got the sack for turning up early,
that’s my CV to you.
Come fly with me
like the greats do.

Dopamine

team effort.
But it won’t last this dancing lark, we’ll have to give in at some point.
Maybe, when that runs out, we'll bolt like outcasts on a quick coffee run,
the sum of all the wrong parts looking for a grande fix in the signed latte cups of
keep us awake until the hootenanny is over,
’til we’ve finally grownup     not slept for weeks because we’re thinking back to the last good time we had,
that streak of good luck.

I pass the blame to staring into periphery,
into stratospheric geography, thin blue line of our own history,
the false expectations of ourself,
deduced      boiled down to the whimper of
an under-rehearsed soliloquy.
When you reach this height of nonchalance,
of stumbling onto summits without actually walking,
you’ll have torched every bridge your hands have touched,
given in to direction,
given it up for a sea-level slow dance with your ego
and you still don’t know the steps. 

Another vintage shop has sprung up

and with each one the bands get more familiar.

Next, I bet, they’ll be selling Delia Smith memorabilia to kids who can’t spell ti-ra-mi-su,
considering that they live on it.

Cheap tinsel would’ve been better but they plump for the faux chic look of a fake fur coat
and hope it doesn’t rain;
horoscopes are accurat-er than weather reports, anyway, and isobars are lame- what’s their function?
They’re sat checking 
snapchats at the traffic lights
in snapbacks and new nikes
not looking ahead to the junction.