Sleep Well My Dear

sleep well
my dear,

for I have attached

a flag to my roof;

one night
we drift off
and sail to the moon



So clichéd, but you look so divine in the morning light just before you wake, just before the heavy day breaks, so warm and soft and so is the light and so delicate it hums inaudibly as you groan, as you roll slightly and your arm pulls the sheets down pulls the seconds down as we grow closer towards the alarm sounds like an axe splits this moment in two and my arm moves like a suture through limbs to turn it off to turn it back two minutes so for a moment it can be just us two in the warm glowing light.


Rain Falls Slowly In The Cold

Rain falls slowly in the cold
like awkward tears,
there is no rush,
it thickens
in the oily night
as strangers huddle together;
silhouettes around a traffic light
to cross the splashy road
with drivers behind wipers
so comfortable,
lampposts become bonfires
killing snowflakes
as moths in the cold.


((Youholdme hidden (protected) like brackets, between your castlethighs spooningme in the top draw in morning sheets in nighttime sheets within closedarms, we are a sentence but wetwo silent naked curves leave nospace forwords))

Death Hums Softly

         death            softly
   hums in mirrors    at night                                                                   

in                                             and golden
        electric  windows

(T)his Dirty Sink

I will

Shave my beard

Yes still bits of spit(tl)e and

morning’s drool

But worse,

It’sstuck with

words  ha/lf mummmbled

Too afraid to of said out loud, with

Bits of leftover kiss e s

And s/ex/y sweat

Styled from us waking us up  

It’s as long as we,   were

Its end(s) blanket the roots

It curls back on itself

Forest   gro in reverse

For getting rings–Timber

Is bellowed from huffing lungs

Metallic fe lling

Scores of tiny

Vibrating axes

Of sharp (good)byes



In front of

(T)his dirty sink

Of course stubble

Of course stubborn

wet hands & a

blood speckled face off


Maybe god herself is
                  just lost in
                  this carnival
                           of life

      tripping over
   old shoes,
  fumbling at

the top step

finding herself
two places
at once.

Trust or Love

Is it trust or love
to be so close
to another's face
that they let you
touch it, softly
with the back
of your hand
with their eyes
shut, vulnerable
in their own room

                                                                                                                                                                                          All Content © Thomas Oliver 2019