Dave - poems and photography

Dave Whyte (or White - he could never decide),

a lover, a sculptor, a dancer, a ham, a petulant brat, a lost waif, a genius, a saint, an icon, a shard of my heart, a blade in my side, a memory, a mountain to climb, a revelation, an aspiration, the love of my life, a random calamity ...

1986 to 1987 was our moment.

I can’t recall the breakup; I don’t know when he died.

Falling was instant: it was a sparsely attended pop-up disco event.

He was dancing on the bar. His pants were loose - too loose - they dropped to his ankles, and with one unbroken movement he swooped them back up into place.

But it was one second too late for my heart - I was slain.