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February 14, 2018

Comma,

Chaos is King's Cross's middle name.
I wander without direction or an aim.
No one smiles, except the little child.
Everyone else has been exiled.

So they mutter about their rich lives,
as a train leaves and another arrives.
I wonder what gives them pleasure
when not basking in grey weather.

I lose myself until I see you,
and then, a breakthrough:
we are not them, they are not us.
Us, we'd rather get the bus.

Us is board games on the floor,
in Porto Koufo by the seashore.
On the dock of the bay like Redding,
bad dancing at a Greek wedding.

In the middle of Gerrard Street,
I heard your heart beat.
Hey there, Mr. Tambourine man,
come live with me in a caravan.

Here, until the sand runs out.
In perpetuity, with or without
a sky studded with fullstops
and you, forever my comma

February 8, 2018

Somersault

You asked me why I don't write anymore:
I lost the spare key to heaven's door.
It's been barricaded, locked, for years;
nope, can't open it, not even with tears.

I know where it is but I just can't get it.
It's buried deep down a grit-filled pit,
once crowded with innocence and hope,
mocked for its resemblance to a tightrope,
except there is a pole with which to balance,
but where's the fun in that, where's the challenge?

I lost it when I was told to go swimming with the sharks.
"But I'm a little guppy", I said. "No, or you'll lose marks!",
as if life was this big tournament, only I was not aware.
You have to blow the whistle to scare away the bear.

But then I somersault back into existence,
unfamiliar with the path of least resistance.
I look at you and suddenly everything's alright.
I can go to sleep now. Good night.