Dust

Sometimes, in moments too gentle to grasp,
too fragile in hands clumsy and hard,
in fatigued closed lids
and weathered breathing,
a chance will pass by
stealthy
crying
needle point sharp
and all who see it clap their hands
I believe! I believe!
Innocently violent in the reception,
and shatter the dream
like the crumbling of butterfly wings.

On Your Word

Bare-knuckle brawled
beaten within an inch,
you had me tasting the floor in my breath
and wanting for you to get it over with
finish me,
mortalise the fuck and get on with it.
I’m no victim but circumstance had me by the scruff
and, if I had any, I so many ways, by the balls.
The 1-2-3-whistle ever blew.