Cyanophile

The blue
toothpaste
and
coffee-ish
smell
of arrival.
Success
in blue
money,
crisp
comfort,
living a
costly life
in hard
cash.

The blue
icing on
the annual
candle-cake
sweet, solidified
and loopy,
sky-writing
a future
somewhere
blurry
and
dark green,
illuminated
by a patch of
psychedelic
grass with
peacock-blue
roots
shining in veins
of cracked earth,
browned
under the
travelling sun.

The blue
evening sun,
hungry,
like me,
entering
the moon's
sea of
tranquility
to trawl
its depths
and steal
words and
meanings like
'Comfort' and
'Somnambulimia':
sleep
walking
and not
eating,
and
coming
out
iridescent
and
blue-quoted
the
next
morning.

The blue
air
sickness
of sitting
somewhere
hidden,
window seat,
hoping for
an oblique,
colour-coded
glance and
some blue
eyed
sympathy
in return
of
a
smile.

Or
a
feast
of blue
vein
cheese on toast
with melting
butter and
a remote
control,
pressed
green to
pause
holding
something
precious
or insane
or a
mocking
face
regarding
the past
with
liqiud
modesty.

The blue
bitch of
a yellowish
life,
captured
in stark
naked
detail
by
technology
on tiny
pixels:
weekend all
sold out,
lapped up
by eyes,
and ears
and
sometimes
the
radar
down there.

The blue
silverscreen
of memory
now
become
grainy with
age and
constant
misuse;
gone
yet there
stored
in crushed
paper balls,
uncrumpled
at will,
read and
smiled at
from
time
to time.
Good
time.
Bad
time.
Blue
time.