Dear Mathil

Dear Mathil,

I am writing to give you a picture of where my head lives.
over the bar hangs a solid gold moon
which winks like an eyeball as I turn in my cycles.

A garden on stilts does the walking,
theres no waiting for tea leaves or love
but a fistful of apples for the federations of feelings, I keep in boxes and boxes of love.

There is skating clowns whistling through pen lids,
chavs smoking in swan boats, shopping centres giving out golden pork pies with their gristle and fat and cold love.

Its not the cold that we court here Mathil,
I am trying to get to the centre,
but the open heart is, what the waking man is,
all feeling flags drawn across mast.

How can we keep the sail ships from storming,
when our strings taught, cold snap taught us cold love.