Thistle Regrets

Dreaming of the way her hills of green surround me, how her waters flow, that flower on Mum’s brooch.
That bonnie lass kissed me, and I was in love until I backed off and left her standing still, crying like an angel.
A bloody git with no love to give; I sit on park benches wishing for a bit of ‘The Guard’ treatment once a week.
The lassies don’t love an old cock, so I use face paint on me face to enhance my features, but it don’t help.
To think I feel ancient at 30! Not even Belle and Sebastian can save me ass, as she’s getting married today.
I swore I’d pop over, stand up like Elton John wanted to, and say I love you babe and I wanna kiss the bride, yeah!
Her vagina is for him now, so I can’t be taking a vagina that’s been freely given in the pleasures of consensual coitus.
I’m shite at love, yet there’s always hope in the valleys and the Loches that are 21st-century ladies and lassies.
Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t a sheep shagger; I just didn’t know love when it bit me or hit me between the eyes.
Speaking of the devil, there’s a lassie coming my way. Could it be her? No. Yet she’s like strawberries and cream; I might have a tub.

Nineteen Years

To sit, watching the sky change
from blue, grey, sunflower yellow,
slowly changing
to pink, indigo, darker colours.

To wonder, thinking of your love,
the tempo of your heart,
constant, changing,
from blue, green to indigo, black.

To love, without fear of tongues
moving like the wind,
lashing love,
moving until seeds grow darker.

To think, after nineteen years
your heart, my heart,
they feel the same,
they love in many colours, shades.

To feel, physical movements,
mystical movements,
as our trunks, branches,
leaves intertwine until the light fades.

The Remains

After many years of love the bow broke,
then the music of love stopped playing;
we began to drift apart and separate.

Littered among the remains of
the two of us
are the ashes of music instruments.

All the music we played for each other
is now burnt
to the ashes on the floor of our parting.

Falling Fruit

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You fly into the blue
Another journey to somewhere
while I remain nowhere

As you fly into the blue
An engine gives a cough
The cargo bounces about

You text me of love
A strange message from you
I text back words of love

They say the plane crashed slow
Hundreds of lives frozen in terror
My heart broke into love shards

You died in that crash
Going into the green
As it rained falling fruit

Painting by Mercedes Granel, “Falling Fruit.”

The Trappings of Love

Rusty razor blades sitting in the bin,
hairbrushes and combes laying loose.

Bathroom items lounging about,
something fluffy is stuck to the floor.

Empty plastic bottles and bits sit still,
dirty laundry piles up even higher.

Packets of surfboards hide from sight,
sex toys blush quietly contemplating life.

The drain gurgles about your love life;
the trappings of love have found you both –
as you fleece each other with the tweezers.