To predict the two year old boy next door
has reincarnated the world a rainbow is better
than fresh bruises although the shades of blue on day

three can be pretty before waking to a green
not the same as 'nature', 'innocence' or 'spring',
it's as clear as gin without concerns swirling in the bath,

the one you sit in fully clothed wishing for a blanket
and a pillow to hide getting out would be the same as shit
or spew missing the toilet bowl if the next victim slips,

cracks his head sparkling mythical aches like Jupiter's
before vision turns into a naked woman,
the one thrown over the shoulder of unsuspecting

mistakes not paying attention to her far-away
gaze, she moans about not being able to move,
he thinks she's had a stroke, will phone an ambulance

and forgets to shut the bedroom door so people
walking by notice sleeping beauty sprawled and sleep
is not the same as the colour of a cross bow after tequila

slamming with a house full of teenage boys comatose
and cranky, he lines them up, is going to shoot
and they're shivery cold sober thinking the colour

of the world is an arrow through the chest
until a woman walks in, talks tenderly as a lover
and nothing happens: it's foolish to think headlines

change when a party fetches fish net with nipples
exposing the world is pink until she laughs
a Roman orgy applause so ancient

he decides he prefers to be alone
without her knowing the colour of the world
is a credit card stolen and all her money too.

At least she can still feel his warmth,
cuddle in, maybe later,
he will hold her

and it won't feel like the time
he wiped his face on the sheets.
Egyptian cotton

left her in the warp and weave.
Later he said this
isn't working.

Instead of relief, she wonders
what it was like to be delicious
with anticipation,

not pretending the way he did
when she asked what does it
feel like? Home,

yes that's it.
She doesn't talk,
there is no point telling

him she had no idea
post coital means forgetting
where you live.

It doesn't get husky or vodka soaked.
It doesn't get suddenly sexy yet you notice
changes in my voice when questions
answered with a statement similar to fantasy,
the ability to predict more than another step one,
step two, is there more to this seduction
when you gave me an image of sliding
your hands, lifting me to your tongue,
to the wetness of mouth and cunt. I said
I'd come all over your face and it was then,
at that precise moment, you promised to seal
my mouth with a kiss to swallow my gods
and lick where I've bitten my lower lip.