Let Saharan
songbirds attempt

If I were Hemingway, I would regale you with Mediterranean love and war, peace and harmony and depression; watch sparrows flock and block the horizon with their spectral manoeuvres; if I were Hemingway I would kill the bull myself just to spend another shallow evening staring into the finest contours of your visage and finding beauty in every imperfection.

to spell

If I were Fioravanti, I would keep my trio of siblings out of the rain and let no one know of their existence, except for you, would you allow me to hold your hand on a baked beach or kiss the malignancy from your lips or point out your flaws in the hope of somehow persuading you that you could not possibly do any better than me, when, as we all know, I am the ogre to your princess.


If I were Schrödinger, I would have put nothing inside the box and established that our perceptions are meaningless without the foreknowledge of earlier parameters; that were I to tell you that nothing existed within the box and you opened it, finding nothing, would that prove me right or prove to you that I take reality too seriously?

name with

If I were Plath, I would have written the name of a ghost using the blood of the miscarriage; the ghost of you haunting the dying hallways of my imperialistic mind, the ghost of you creaking on the rickety floorboards of the basement in my head, shuffling with empowerment as you frighten me to believe in the sempiternal illogical.

the finest

If I were Doolittle, I would uncover that song's measure and attach your name in soporifics betwixt the lines of Pound and the tantalising folds within the amerciable sapphic relations that only experience and true appreciation of the human body could ever prescribe.