Humbled bodies stumble up impossible hills.
Very nearly chests punched out desperate,
almost empty of breath.
Flushed and concussed by heaven’s flashing tusks.
Flogged and flooded and searching for the summit –
the manmade road and its pantomime of safety.
Later on, in the concaved car we concurred, agreed,
that no matter what Edinburgh and the Enlightenment might mean
up here in these mountains
it’s the Lady in Green
who is Lord of Storm, Mistress of Crows, Rattler of Bones.
And we were just happy to be going home
You Sleep With Your Eyes
You sleep with your eyes
A drowsy shark
our unlit rooms
Your searchlight strobing
through doors and windows,
across the hidden depths,
the obtusest of angles.
An off the cuff comment from weeks ago.
to the claw below the bed,
for the lifting of its heel –
a rumble of Morse
from our shifting, unfaithful floor.
like the elephant with its own antechamber –
a walk-in wardrobe filled with shell-encrusted lover’s gifts.
And my heart,
its deep, uncharted trench,
lying against you,
its next move.
Born in Zurich and brought up in the north of England, Bruno Diaz studied English at King's College London and has worked, amongst other things, as a record shop grunt, a film and TV extra, and a marketing consultant. He lives in London and can be found via twitter.com/brunodiazwriter.