For The Boy With Seven Hearts:

For The Boy With Seven Hearts:

I

Your heart is a stone to skim,
a pebble to throw.
                   You play
Knock Down Ginger until Death
answers the door.
                  When you dig
the back garden, you unearth
rusted remains: the pedal
from your tricycle.
                    The bones
of everything are buried
somewhere.
           There is evidence
of God in a scratch across
this vinyl groove.
                   Your first wank
leaves indelible stains.
                         Sleep
without dreams is a sentence
deconstructed by Burroughs.

II

Your heart is black coal, never
to form diamond.
                 You cut
your palm with a razor blade
and nothing comes out.
                       She lures
you into her father’s shed
and pulls her knickers down: all
you can do is stare.
                     Orange
squash looks like piss.
                        Summer rain
on a caravan’s tin roof,
the hiss of a gas mantle
and a radio in tune
with Caroline.
               You drop love-
bombs on the suburbs, throw sex
grenades at garden gnomes.
                           School
assembly is where a sea
of dreams breaks on arid shores.

III

Your heart is not pink candy,
coated with sugar words.
                         Fields
of young corn stain Essex green
with verdigris.
                There are men
walking on the Moon while you
read Captain Marvel.
                     You steal
dust jackets from books and paste
them to your chimney breast.
                             Skirts
are short, legs are long and tights
come in between.
                 By candle-
light you pray for sirens not
to sound.
          You get spots, but not
by ripping stars: your sister
brings home a friend whose fingers
are skin sparks of fork lightning.

IV

Your heart is a clock, with springs
oiled by blood.
                The girl next door
knows you are watching.
                        You draw
cartoon spaceships and monsters,
yet fail to capture the curves
of naked women.
                Paper
flags and plastic windmills trap
the shoreline breeze and translate
it to sound.
             For your homework,
you compose a two digit
reply to messages sent
from Mars.
           There is broken glass
in the paddling pool; you could
fry an egg on the slide.
                         Night
is a globe of jet that holds
the next day in suspension.

V

Your heart is a revolving
door you wish to slam.
                       Plaid skirt
fastened with a safety pin:
she likes to slip her hand up
the leg of your shorts.
                        You wake
when the chalk-faced glove puppet
starts to laugh.
                 Your birthday cake
stinks the room out when you blow
the candles.
             No certainty
exists in fiction now that
scissors replace the pen.
                          Sing
the wrong words in the wrong key
because it feels right.
                        You hope
for love in the company
of mediocre people
with taciturn mouths: some hope.

VI

Your heart is a red balloon,
buoyed up by your breath.
                          You catch
a bumblebee and let it
sting your hand.
                 There is nothing
but what there is.
                   Mother says
not to show off, not to call
attention.
           Your first kiss tastes
of cherry lip gloss: Jilly
brings mistletoe to class.
                           Weep
when your grandpa dies, then laugh
at Yellow Submarine.
                     Stop,
for christ’s sake, just fucking stop.

VII

Your heart is the seat of lies,
told mainly to yourself.
                         Rhyme
is your excuse to frame poor
phrases.
         Your life is a jump-
cut between unconnected
scenes.
        You scrump for blackberries
and stain your hands as if with
slaughter.
           Undress your sister’s
Barbie and caress untipped
breasts, fondle the featureless
mound.
       You hear your father fall,
but take no heed: you can save
him now with all you will know
of cardiac arrest.
                   Time
does not allow a comma,
no pause in your narrative.