Lucy Forde is a girl who thinks
that Hershey’s Kiss chocolates are the turds of glam rock squirrels
she keeps a fistfull in her pocket and hangs out in parks.
Stuart Meet is a boy who petends
that coconuts are bear eggs, he breaks them into his breakfast
absorbs the super strength, then swings out from street corners on his racer.
They slip sideways at a party one night
and meet in the morning with flushed pillow print cheeks,
they sit at the kitchen table dead-heading cigarettes.
Each thinks, this could last two weeks,
and keep jumping up out of their seats to edit
lines of magnetic fridge poetry.
They make a raisen face in the bowl of wooden lychees
do impressions of the couple whose syntax seemed broken
but brought a Sainsburys bag brimming with oat crackers and Tzatzichi.
On the fourth round of tea
both think there is something in it
as the ceiling keeps sprilling up into view
and the washing outside on the hedge
is crocheted in spider webs; they head back up the stairs to bed
and people-pop out their skin dents.
Drying he says he can see her spine frictioning
like a freeze dried swan,
her fingers on his knuckle joints made him jitter
they write in biro across one anothers chests,
on her, like a string of seed beads ‘this is your life line’
correlates the pulmonary arch and ebb.
She says ‘there might be things under the bed’, but
his rib cage huff confesses
‘I used to think the rhythm was going to get me.’