Looking out for each other

Half an Aspirin

If that’s all it takes

To steady the tear

In your eye

I will ask the doctor

For sure I, neither, wish

For anything to happen

At a stroke

Leaving me or you

Without the hope of a pen

Or the laughter

Of again making love

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Fridays on my mind

Halfway through the morning, did I forget to take the tablets? An inventive infusion, rush of blood, unsteady hands in fuzzy hair. Take a cup of coffee, settle, wait for the caffeine to take hold. Sit, in the chair by the fire, read your book: The memoirs of Cocteau.

Of course these are also your thoughts, they are universal ok. He wrote them down, and sat over coffee, with Marcel Proust to consider their merits, before publication; they are though your thoughts, your own unsteady movements captured therein

Time now to return to the task; the letter, the video, the application of the facial mask. Step up from the armchair, to the leather covered, five wheeled, industrial office chair. Then together, press the keys ctrl, alt, delete.

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Wait, you may not…

If you would just listen

Or hear

Not just that, which you want

To hear

Or leave the condescending voice

Behind

Instead to care; what is on

My mind

It's hard enough anyway without your

Flippant laugh

If only once to be serious, not so

Naff

I did not mean to hurt, why

Would I

That’s not where I'm coming from, but

Should I

If you want to lose your way

Again

Or stand outside in falling

Rain

That's ok, really, it is almost

Kind

Just let yours be the love

Which I find

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Victorian evening

The conversation is unclear

Can you moisten the air

Droplets for the words to jump

From one to the other unsteady

Still the rains have waived

Leaving grey skies and cold breezes

Discoloured leaves by warm fires

With chestnuts and fingerless gloves

My hesitation is near

Can you harness the light

Sprinkle sunlight’s beams

For the words to overbalance

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Looking forwards

There are shadows, but they are nothing other

Than the preservation, the hiding of your face

From the tearaway sun

Ornaments and pictures but they are nothing

Other than a receptacle for our outpouring

Eyes behind our dark glasses

Clocks, but time is nothing but here and now

It is gone, and here, now it comes again

Without any life in the stasis

There are widescreen televisions; nothing without

Electricity, or the creativity of the artist

Along with the emptiness of the audience

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