Romance on Soft Furniture

This poem was highly commended in the Buzzwords 2016 poetry competition.

 

Everything is ready for the race –

come up here, lover

in your twisted hunger

with yellow coffee stains

on the inside of your teeth.

Chopin is on lead guitar,

Fahey on the accordion,

Tierson straddling his flute,

Schumann took the snare

because there was nothing else

to play; now the orchestra is ready –

come over, lover

in your peeled lace and your hat

that tilts your head like the winds

of the harbour.

The cows are standing

at the edge of the field with

brown horses and sheep,

looking over the fence;

the vultures are checking their watches

beside the children,

the young adults who are yet

to lose their hair;

everything in the entire universe

fits into the portrait

whose title is so long

and uses such ancient symbols

that no one can say it

in one breath –

come into the booth where

the coldest drinks are served, lover

in your dark glasses that leave

a ridge embedded

upon your nose.

The edges of the armchair

are bent to the shape

of my elbows and the windows

are still sweating from when

the sun winked at them

from a high angle;

the hosepipes growl

at the river as they pass by

and the history books tell us

that we are not new, that everyone

has been in love

a thousand times and every song

about it is basically

the same –

come towards the fire where

the piano-tree grows

out of smoke, lover

in your freckled spills

of paint and ice.

Everyone is on the line,

at the marks, the animals,

the drinks, the sound of an orgasm

three floors below,

the fighting weeks and years

who pretend to know

each other; everything

is about to go –

come into the afternoon, lover

in your morning sorrow

that carries wellington boots,

whistles and padlocks,

in fear of every occasion.

Come, lover,

come over here;

if i can make you laugh

before i pour

the first drink, will you stay

forever with me?