Your tongue lashes the silence,
with the restless panache of a pony
resisting being broken in.
You jump in the puddles of her reverie,
gleaning tiny splashes;
lose lipped inflections
of a feeding fish.
she bathes in the comfort
of breathing in your spores, molecules
and atoms, exhaling rainbows;
their intensity scarring your ability
to nestle in their beauty.
I dreamt of a real woman
with movement in only the right places;
she was tigeresque,
in this season's colours;
mustard cardigan mingled with red,
the colour of wet rust on copper piping.
She exuded confidence: words flowed
from her tongue as a magician's neverending
handkerchief, turning her lips to passion fruit -
a sweet and juicy smile.
You and I have been friends
online for sometime;
today I found you thought
I was someone you knew,
for my part I'm a nosy feck
who likes to see the tick
of people's minds.You sent me an audio olive branch,
your latest experimental music montage
with lots of synthesisers and autotune.
I typed back it was awful good.
My brain only agreed with one
of those words, but you couldn't see my face
so we are still friends
I try to define your features
while looking away from dark corners
and alleyways, where you cluster
like hooded coal scuttles - wonder, if lately
you have pushed old men against walls
robbing them of masculinity;
before stealing their possessions.