I hear the knock

Mother tips the baking tray
a cluster of muffins
stumble fall into the basket

Her hair is a
frizzed
black halo of
death angels
flying around her

I'm looking out the window
seeing trees
thinking of callouses

She never hums
on Friday nights

The kitchen
quiet save the hiss pop
of the elements
as they cool

We hear the knock

Mother allows one
furtive glance
just one
to slip from her eyes
a clear tear
to be muddied and sullied


She is looking out
the window
seeing trees
thinking of callouses

We jump when the screen door
claps shut
but it is my little brother
come in from the back yard

Mother harries and hurries
him into the bathroom
to clean and scrub
and avoid

From the shed
expletives
descend
a cloud
buzzing and biting

I am closing my eyes

tight

seeing trees

only trees

We were snow
insubstantial
a reason to
shiver


We were rain
formless sheeting deluge
falling together
for hours


We were sleet
driving at windows sideways
always just short
of solidity

These days of
spider eyed strangers
how they crawl and scurry
upon my flesh

What to see
the shape of wood and dust
the pall hanging
in the still dead dying air

How particles attach to my skin
sink in
recreate me rough sawn

My mind
the winding of spirals
a jag of splinters
how they protrude
pushed from beneath
pus thrusting wet wood
to surface and jut
with ugly release

Pluck a thought
let the small dot of blood
bulge
dribble watery and
infected

These days
of no one

Maybe the best time to write is
when you least feel the power.



It came for us


the blog
gelatinous mass
shoveling souls
into its gaping maw
one lonely at a time


High above
in the curling branches
of the liquid Amber
the twitters
chirruped and flapped
in consternation

I saw so many
press their faces to
covers of books
page upon page
of outpouring
the
scoured hearts
leaving blood spot trails
upon the margins


And always
in the background
a chant
a moan
a billion hoarse voices
howling in the dark

my space
my space
give me
my space

Recession

Derrick thrusts his hands
deep into his pockets
and arches his neck back
taking in the plaster ceiling
with an expansive eye


Its tough
he says

so quiet

The showroom
a mausoleum
displays
gaudy caskets
open and beckoning

The counter
cleaned and gleaming
awkwardly uncluttered

Rachel stares
at her monitor
pointedly ignoring
the invisible hand
resting upon her shoulder
telling her its almost time
to go

Breakfast

There are two coins on the counter
and a smear of donut icing


The short lady
with a limp
has taken my order
and she sprays Cantonese at the doe-eyed girl
beside her
sending her scurrying behind the cappuccino machine

The hiss
a thousand steam snakes
arcing up and jabbing at the eyes.

The Bain-Marie holds
crouched jagged lines of curry pies
and sausage rolls
I rest my arms on the warm top
with the miss spelled warning sign
held with yellowed sticky tape

The short lady
smiles and asks after my day

I pat down my pockets
rattle the keys in my jeans
and sadly explain
I cannot find it

No matter
she says
and her smile reaches out
and hugs me gently

There is the matter

of anger
and how it can be a rising star
reflecting in your eye

How it gathers
galaxy's and comets
and brings them
big brothers
looming over its shoulder
looking forbidding
and dangerous

Mick wanted to tell her story
to the city
imprint her into
the thrumming hum
of humanity.

His back to the wall
the dull glow beam
of the street light
pooling at his feet

He could always sit
just out of sight
blend with the pavement
his face
crushed cigarettes
and shoe scuff marks

At night
he would turn to the rough block-work
and inscribe his words into the mortar
running between the harsh stone

She is steam
the creaking beams
of my bones
as they crack
and splinter

Heat like old summers
drawn into one long red sunset
the tinged burn of skin
beginning to blister

Pain like foil on filling
so sharp then recedes
and soothed till
jangling nerves leap into
discordant screams

would run in scrawls
within the dry crusted cement


The passing of days
his presence
slowly dissolving
a spilled coke
effervescing
into sticky syrup
licked up by hungry mongrels

The dust poem
chipping into flakes
as years came and watched
came and went or
continued on

His words
now

She is

my bones

one sunset
tinged skin
beginning

Pain
recedes
and soothed

Ghosts and other thoughts

Her ghosts

were streaks in the kitchen window
running with the wind swept
drizzle of an afternoon
blanketed in clouds
wrapped snug and warm


They would gather
in the periphery
calling from the far corner
of her eye

Billowing curtains as
she past

tipping cups of tea dregs
into small spills

whining in the back tracks
of songs she hummed

ruffling the cats spine
into fur disturbance

the extra bite
of wind when she opened the door

Her ghosts

caressed her
at night

kiss wraiths
sinking into her dreams

holding her from within

till dawn speared
the morning against
the wallpaper

Come Be

Come
my daughter

My child
my stolen moment
my refusal of mortality

Sit awhile
beside me
here on my old chair
the leather cracked and faded
the smell of men
and smoke
and broken years
deeply infused

I will place all
the expectation in the universe
upon your young shoulders
and you will of course
deny me

I will argue
and you will scream
till the birds fall from the sky
in startlement
in amazement
in homage to
the woman you think you have become

Come
my daughter

My child
my image of God
my pristine canvas
my reminder

Stay awhile
with me
as I drop crumbs of wisdom
for you to ignore
to devour
to plant
for the coming season

I will refute your beliefs
and you will convince me
yet again
never again

all over again.

Aglow

He lets illumination
run through fingers

spill to skirting boards
splash upon wall

fill crevices
flow along
thread bare carpets

He spins

drinks in
contrast

Perceptions
stretch
extend in long talons
across his bristled jaw

reach around behind his head
cup his neck
to pull him
in close

The lingering
of light
blushed
and breathless