No Title

Her hands

weighted steal
hanging
limp and pendulous.

She would swing them at
ghosts
watching the wraiths dissipate
in the passage of her arms.

Oft times
in bed
she could lay them on her breast
allowing the weight
to push her down
through the weave
of mothers
hand woven coverlet
into the cool sheets
and through to the sprung matress
beneath

The coils biting skin
hooking and holding
as she passed

Upon the worn floor boards
the ridged timber surface
scarred and creased
she would come to rest
under the bed
where ghosts
did not wander
or watch her

their pale accusations
their spectral fingers pointed
their screams of soundless blame

Her hands

butterflies
winging above her eyes
the soft rustle
a comfort
a calling


a sense of falling away

The floor boards
refused to support
any longer
and she hoped

the butterflies
could hold her.

No,

not sleeping,

dying.

A shade of blue

deeper than violent.

I don't do gasping

pallid beached fish

flopping on the carpet.

The biggest loser flickers

wobbling bulging

wanna be’s

sweating across

the big screen

above me.

My stretched O mouth

mistaken for an extended yawn

post orgasmic languid

or post porn.

My hands

splayed just so

going for a

righteous Christ

TV hand control

a rusting nail

driven through my palm.

I’ve fallen on the abcrunch

enhance-your-sex

abdominal-crushing

you know your girl

will be blushing

stomach tightening

$21.95 a month

plus postage

slick chrome and black

mechanical torture device

has pierced my side

nicely

neatly

bleeding sweetly

staining the worn weave

of our history.

And when you arise

in a russet morning

stab of light

bring

resurrection

stained into your

seamless skin

a tattooed oath

of timeless gospel

raving

salvation

while you lullaby

my sex

with deft fingers

stroking

mouth evoking life

from flesh gone cold.

No

not sleeping

dying…

Question

If I am going nowhere

why is it taking so long

to get there?

Fuck a world that continues to take a tax of humanity

Even though

or perhaps

because

all the pieces were falling into place

I still jigsawed across the table top
a scattering

of disjoint

Grey smoke vines
coil from nostrils flared
as the bite of cold coming air
takes hold
and curls the thin threads
around my skull in an aura

a miasma

a warning


Jen is dying

I
found out yesterday
somehow
the way you say it
makes it matter of fact

Like the tap is leaking

Jen is dying
kinda rolls off the tongue
and drools across the floor
to plop against my bare toes

If I step forward
her demise will be a warm wet
feeling beneath me
and I know

my feet will never dry


Fuck a world that continues to take a tax of humanity
from me
its not as if
I have hoards of people
secreted in banks
internet or otherwise
I pay and pay
and still
there is a bill there at the end of each quarter.




Jen wasn't

goddamn past tense

isn't
my favorite person
hardly the point

She is/was
however
a point of reference

if you read the road map of me
you will clearly see her
marked in red on the way
a place of interest
a rest stop
a motel with three star meals

She will pass within a limited time now
like a cream container
clearly marked with use-by indifference
and if you sniff too closely
the cloying scent of
too late
fills you

fills your eyes
tears you up
takes your breath so you hitch a little
seeking air clear
of deaths otherness


Jen was
something concrete
I stood upon
till now

without getting my feet wet.

Untitled.

Memories

Come sliding through the glass doors
at midnight

a mist of complexities
weaving wraiths and ghosts

Pale against heavy drapes
a lightless parade
figures haloed with scent
and sound.

I rise to greet an unborn child
his wild unformed fingers
reaching for an embrace
left behind on a wet August night
twelve years ago.

I hug air
whisper kiss his never brow
and tell him how I loved him

love him still

Fierce and strong my hold
on his imagined weight
the new born smell
I know so well
fills senses

He is real

as real as his sister

that never was

She waits her turn
large eyes
bright pin points of promise
blending into the glow of standby lights
on computer towers.

Together they question time
why it never allowed them to join the flow

why they are caught as a moment
come and gone

I try to explain
loss
and how it wakes their mother
brings tears
a silver glisten
in the moons pale revelations

They are mine tonight
to seek

to speak to

Their mother
rests peaceful
on the bed where they were made
her rise fall released breath
enveloping them

They leave me

as they left me so long ago

go to her

seep into her

to become tears
a silver glisten
in the moons pale revelations.

Untitled.

The piano will play us

one key at a time


Black white contrasting notes
of impossibility
drifting out across open
second story
untold stories.

I have given
very little
so many times

The distant winter song
of snow deep isolations
and how your foot prints
are erased each night beneath
the numbing blanket of tomorrow’s
fresh fall.

I'm checking the bathroom mirror
for signs of your breath

I'm checking my skin
for signs of your caress

how you mark me

indelible

but ultimately
invisible


The piano plays you

a concerto rising on the escaping
heat of today
bleeding into the welcoming embrace
of another crisp empty

Hearing you
is not the same as contact
but I will reach beyond
the length of my bare arms
past the stretch of fingertips

seeking without sight
touch without skin

Till
we become
a remembered chord
of a forgotten strain
running together
to hum and harmonise.