Her name? Melancholy.

She took a stitch from this old worn heart–

one that seemed so tattered and torn

like childhood memories and old ragdolls–

it only took a second to pull the thread

between her slight fingers– delicate and bloody–

curiosity played at those tips– laced

with each twinkle in fawn orbs that danced

along the curb side of her fears– just one glance–

strange she thought as the light shone through–

yet nothing reflected in lost azure hue–


Succinctness let him embrace her close– heated moments

dammed in remorse and irrational dreams–

rushing river– wept and drowned– an open

sliver– fragmented between crashing fancies–

it pulled him down and upon regret choked–

but the door lay open within his breast– lacking sutures

and dressings fresh – the rest played out in slow delay–

with the touch of her lips pressing against–

never known– spoken of– spoken to– just left to stray– misconstrue–

never to begin– nor end– in memories made with you–


Poem © Phen Weston 2017




She parts waves with breath

that saturates those hidden days.

Colours binding, blinding coquetry,

drawing the darkness in.

Tourniquet and tenderness

juxtaposed by her raw wilderness.

If she saw her collected beauty,

that raptures soul in sapphire fantasies,

she would shy in inhabited silhouette.

But I see… see past the twilight

she hides between. Penumbra

placed, and traced, against her skin

that marks her self-doubt with jinn

like possibility – forsaken to her mind –

But I… I see azure in her swirling shores,

immense and immeasurable elegance

that drapes against the nights rapport

and opens promises to tribulations and allure,

and know the world could not be more

because in her eyes the universe spins

and sits upon a pinhead, with wings

that touch the sun. Icarus may fail,

but in her warmth existence blooms

and supernovas scream of her essence!

She is Gaia, goddess, celestial light,

and existence gazes upon her, waiting 

to weave her unbounded story 

out of endless night…


Poem © Phen Weston 2017

Ballade to Sorrow

“Some old wounds never truly heal, 
and bleed again at the slightest word.”
― George R.R. Martin


How do I revive you? Truth
relived in those painted insights
taste our remorse like dry vermouth
against the sickly drought of your wight!
Before eldritch lovers you mask again light.
Drove in dehydration we seep
below constancy – tremulous blight –
through my fingers to the deep.*

Is love lost in death of youth?
I remember the pattern – flight
that flickered feverishly, the flashing booth
recording kisses to fresh found height.
And there was never a fight
in those elevations. We allowed a leap
of faith to convulsing hearts – now slip right
through my fingers to the deep.*

Shall we bury bittersweet untruth?
Once form danced. And now excite
the clues picked by empathic sleuths –
we never sever with whimpering foresight.
Rancor, reap embraced snakebite –
and bitter, with tongue’s sweep,
becomes the callous road. You fight
through my fingers to the deep.*

Which wicked kiss laid such parasite?
Stranger days we adored now plague sleep
and in infernos obsolete, your fahrenheit
spirals through my fingers to the deep.*


* Edger Allan Poe, A dream Within A Dream

Poem © Phen Weston 2017




Suffused coppices begin

I lost the face I mourned –

draped in fledgling sanguine

wishes and trance adorned

with velvet– naïve incongruity –

her bodily promiscuity

touched upon fathered needs

in bisymmetry to outer flow

and swathed in all my deeds –

to bridge plea in countless low –

blood traced forgotten

upon wind and plot – in

disfigurements aspiration –

wait against the beating bark

for whispers incantation

expressed by tender lark –

do you touch upon my lips again –

touch upon my lips­ again– and remain

in all those recollections replaced

by visions of coppice and fallen time –


Poem © Phen Weston 2017

Love, Thou Art

Love- thou art

the rider on the storm-

seductive precursor to demonstrations

of demons in flesh suits-

Love- thou art

the burning in my pit- distinct-

distilled- and broken memories

that carve and sow together-

insidious puppeteer- emotion

in the entrails that hold my gut

to her dedicated lies-

and there was nothing- but love

and flies- whimpering mnemonics-

harmony of none-

Love- thou art

my death in all its slow agonising finale-

and I wait- your bitch-

to taste it again-


Poem © Phen Weston 2017


Shifting tarns–

life emits in Bali-brown observations–

provocative gestures allure us– embrace us–


when in Dresden you oscillated

in grey knit– flesh– and sensation–

swathed in limbs that drift in–

and out of heart–

and now we plunge in

and out of seas–

with quartz azure providence and nameless perception–

with sand between your toes

you dance– and sway– in faultless coherences–

and I watch the dance transcend–

back and forth–


harmonies sensual provocateur–


when what little we know- other than a screen–

token love- X-rated feature– and unrequited dreams–

never seen beyond foist seduction– names and nothing–

a tiltott gyümölcs a legédesebb– (Forbidden fruit is sweet)–