you're like something
from MacGowan's mouth
the unexpected beauty
slipping out
from between the gaps
of this broken-toothed world

and I said I wasn't going to
write love poems anymore
but then you're always
in my dreams
and I forget to stop

so I thought I'd write you
something ugly
like the dirty streets below
the transcendence
of our imaginations

those rooms we sometimes
lock for days
cages
filled with the unfurling wings
of pages scattered on the floor
and sheets recoiling as the tides
from the corners of the bed

somewhere inside our heads

before we dress
and I step out in stockings
snagged and already torn
and you with tobacco
on your breath

you call that tear
along my leg
a window to my soul
and I say you must be
the hero of Bukowski's dreams
because we take our greys
as opportunities
to see the colours standing stark

the way we both prefer the night
for the way the stars can shine
though we've grown accustomed
to settling
for the city lights

and everyone we pass
is looking to be loved
even us who stand so well
alone

but I don't want to be your beautiful
I'd rather be the ugly
you revere
the way you are the song
the heavy hand
of dawn
can never disappear