To follow is too late

Once upon a time
there was no time,
only you;
it’s when the talking stops
and I am left to think
about the size of the night
in the small numbers of the clock when
I miss the radio the most,
the audience of one,
the place for homeless thoughts
and mis-shaped, guilty love.

I have no more reach left in me
so I take myself to bed
because no one else will;
there I close my day
with you in the picture on the shelf,
the remains of someone else,
knowing the hole in my heart
is where you forever are.

© D. Archer. October 2013.

When we were young

I had a master-plan to the grave
when we were young,
when the world was smaller than my fears
I’d send you flowers on paper
that needed neither vase nor tending
and every white expansive Sunday
promised “that” look
as I would write unacademic verse
and you, you would go gently grey
watching me listen
to the seasons begin their change.

© D. Archer. September 2013

Mirror mirror on the page

I broke into your mirror
and spent hours under your words
where you sentenced me to be forgotten
just as pages turned,
while you remained elusive
as the corner in a circle
as the sunspot in my eye
I remain a fool for chasing
the shadow of a love
that I know
long since died.

© D. Archer. September 2013.

An archipelago of memories

On laboured nights such as these
life is a slow death,
memories and lies entwined
like leaves that fall
in ones and fours
to cover and colour my unkempt mind
where even the small memories are fading
so I set them free to a listless wind;
I have no use for them any more,
I care not which rise and fall
for we will all be but memories in the end
befouled by some, all by time,
on laboured days such as these
life is a slow death
and I stand loveless in its shadow,
forgotten, whilst still alive.

© D. Archer. August 2013.

Lips like Sugar

Coy my siren,
you lay in pin-up pose,
wearing a quiet smile
lips lust filled
you beckoned
with one perfectly painted
black fingernail.

My neck you bit,
My ear you teased,
my heart too soon spent,
beached like a shipwreck,
my mouth dry to speech.

The bed only for sleeping now;
long gone your ruby-red thrills;
your perfume faded from the pillow,
replaced with tears
for the trust I killed.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Fat Teeth

You shone
my black dressed diamond;
horoscope on golden chain,
bunny collar and headband
virgin white but both fake;

Corset, skirt and
flesh coloured stockings,
no shoes you said
“They were too tight”,
beguiled by your fat teeth*
I regret it was all too short
A night.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

After a great night out on the eve of my birthday. The words “fat teeth” are not actually what I was looking for but they were suggested to me in conversation. Replace them with “smile” for added sentimentality.

My Seven Seventeen

I saw you smile to yourself
through the window on the train;
you didn’t notice me
smiling at you
through the window
in the rain;

the mist on the glass
it must have been
that blocked your view
of you to me;

it must have been the mist
on the glass that made you miss
the words I asked.

Into your music
with a pleasured look;
you combed your hair
without a brush;

the train pulled first
shunted my chance
into the sidelines;
you departed with the rain
and left me standing
in the sunshine;

So, if your smile
was meant for me
I’ll still be here tomorrow
platform two,
seven seventeen.

The Twit who tried to woo

How can I compete
with tank drivers, drummers and artists;
why would you choose me
the one who can be lonely at parties.

Fourteen Facebook messages
and a walk around a sculpture park:
three pints of lager
and a bacon cheese burger
hardly entitled me to your heart.

But that was never on offer
and how I fell from the sky;
it was foolish of me to entertain
and to climb in September so high.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011

Eight hours in September

The nape of your neck called,
naked, framed by your lustrous coloured hair;
slender to be caressed and kissed;
from a distance I watched you walk;

But make-up is for other men,
hair brushed neatly in a tail that
points over porcelain shoulders
to hips my hands
will never feel.

You leave me with a smile on your mouth
but not reflected in your eyes;
later, alone,
the television repeats yesterday
as does mockingly my love,
my life.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011