Broken mug by Stephen Miles

Broken mug

You arrived on an angels wing
the face of an angelic soul
a smile giving oxygen orgasms…
walking as though sex belongs on legs

hell knows, but doesn’t share
a one for you and none for me
talk tall, walk loud, turvy topsying life
waters water and wine gets you drunk

neither turning either to any other
pheromones and dopamine are no Oxytocin
relationships founded on desire and lust
subsiding and falls, failing at the first

the bees and birds are not compatible
a mechanical impossibility, a pleasantry referral
yet you sway, sending rumba through me
watching tennis, drawing my eye to follow the ball

drop shooting over the net as I stoop
back handing my volley
£20 a punnet, only mugs pay that
Wimbledon priced strawberries where do I sign up

I assume the position as my vessel now fills with tea
no China boned, ornate Wedgwood
only honest to god, builders best, filled to the top
twenty carat or more

a sideways police photo
shot, packaged and shipped
sailing across heartbreaks ocean
to the land of the broken mugs.

Stephen Miles about Stephen Miles. I’m 53 diagnosed dyslexic at 47, 47 years avoiding literary word, I’ve discovering spell check as a best friend. My subterranean mental deficiency proved an unfounded, exploding to the surface as a wordsmiths lava. Flowing the external walls of a poetic volcano. So yes, I now write poems. Poems about the life, life around me. Things I see, hear, perceive unjust. Basically, shooting my mouth off.

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