Untitled

You pass me back my face
all ridges and whorls
removed

I will be a smooth plane
for you to create
once again

Your eyes
not yet dead
not quite
the question
you said would
be asked
when the time came

We sit on the courtyard
coffee cooling too quickly
watching the grass consume
the back yard
listening to our child
as she
slowly becomes
something
neither of us can quite touch
or believe in

a fairy tale
where the princess dies
and flies away
dust particles on a broken breeze
her promise of happy-ever-afters

a whispered after thought
still heard
echoing in our coffee cups

The dog scratches and whines
age creeping up behind her
taking hold of the graying fur
and drawing her
down

You put your fingers to my cheek
press in

and start again

remaking
the man
you remember well
though you
cannot tell
if he is really

still here

Home

We put insanity
to a pumping back beat

throb to chaos

My eyes tap in time
ticking

I can hear you
just
over the sound
of collapse

blocks of us
tumble

a bass rumble
snatches and catches
us unprepared

There is nothing concrete
to cling to
no image or scenery
just the sound
of me
going quiet

And your pursed lips
will not take me in
will not bring
escape

We jitter
and arch
figures dancing in the
flames of our world

Tomorrow
we will pick up the pieces
and decide
which bin
to put us in

Morning

Next door,

Martha is singing Jesus songs,

her gilt edged voice

dances over sagging fence palings

bringing redemption

and a sour undercurrent of her

vodka martini’s to settle upon us.

Bright eyed children gather

on the pavement

the scrawled

bold bubble Graffiti

of tagger's

beneath their grubby feet.

Unread,

unheard

their words

are Soul Songs

a screamed silent imprecation

pouring injustice and abject despair

in equal quantities

amongst the pure joy

of saying

“Here we are, hear us”.

A blazing litany of me,

to fade and wash away

beneath the tread of urban decay.

Martha’s song ends,

arthritic hands seek

the murky swirl

of the vodka bottle.

The children

melt away

blurred ghosts

returning to the

haze of the street scape

once more.

A moments beauty

dispersing into mid mornings

crisp air

Henry Said

Henry says

I can't go round
kissing rain drops

But he gets like that

all
pursed lips
his stern fingers wrapped
around a biro
as he scribbles bits of me down
on a oversize note pad

I am watching messages
wing in through the
partly open window
of his office

Folded yellow
paper
with words in bold print
scrawled all over
chittering birds of words
coming
closer


But I can look away
Henry told me
I can look away



It's hard
to listen

listening
to his glistening
mouth
the words plop
and patter
dulcet tones
wash and crush
and wind time
backwards
old grandfather clocks
large hands
spinning fast
in retreat

I nod where I can
smile if I think
it'll be accepted
and look interested
sometimes

he really likes that

if I look like
I am taking it in

Each day is a beginning
Henry says

I'm not sure if a smile will
work for this one
so I nod

Later,
Henry has
given me
this weeks spell
to take to the drug store
and suggested
we are making progress

I am outside
and it's starting to rain
and I promise the sky
no tongues this time

just lips

Yeah Right

The only thing
between me and eternity
is the thread of words
we trade

I found solace
in a red wine
and the endless
line of faces
fading behind my smile

We danced
chanced upon salvation
purely by accident
a low rent decision
stalling the division
between
here
and the melted wax
of a candle
long past a wicks
assurances.

I have given all
and nothing at all
in equal parts
a feathered dart
leaping to the
song of your heart

See me
in all my daggers strike
a spike of sweet pain
and soft refrains
falling in a poor rain's
patter
to drift and patter
against the smeared window sill

I can only hold this sensation
for a moment
for the ghosts
and hosts of dissemination
are stammering
unable to articulate
a past
a line cast into gray sea scapes
where the difference betwixt sky
and sea is a blurred memory

We are dissolution
a random confusion
of emotional connection
and soul infection
the dissection
left to later times
uncrossed lines
best left smeared
and feared to be touched upon.

I have seen you
naked
dancing
wheeling in the sky
a blaze of ochre
searing the suns soft design
refuting
articulation
bringing forth disputation
winging
a soulless gull
to blend and diffuse
into the things
we use
on any given Sunday
to get through
and quietly say

we are ok...


I bow my head
open my mouth
and receive
all the things you said

I absorb you

to create me

Untitled

If I could just
rest my face
on yesterday

the cool press
of memories

would soothe

the pain

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We crest the morning
a runaway steed
foam flecked
withers heaving
the thudding
hooves
kicking sods behind us

Your hands
wound in my hair
reining me in

If I could hold back

I would

but the edge of the earth
beckons
a jagged finger nail
jutting into the sky's
blushed cheeks.

Mold to my spine
fingers aligning
with vertebra

I arch back
knowing
you will bend
and curve

to keep me

Untitled

If we write fast enough
the day will not catch us


Who knew?

that words would rule the world
swirl across
the endless scapes of humanity
and find you
and you

and even you.

Im tapping out
an SOS
of internal rhyme
the cadence
falling soft

landing hard

A penny for your thoughts
was
not enough
and perhaps it never was

Object Unkown

Question


What ails thee my love?


A query
to hang upon
the towel rail

Response

A river of anger
that swells and pulses
over my feet

The way our children
coil and strike
at the eyes and
half truths we once
offered as gospel
but now do not cut it

Question

What heals thee my love?

A query
to flip and rotate
till it catches the morning

Response

A sea of reconciliation
to immerse me
and bring relief
to bright open cuts
and weeping old sores

The way our children
will find us
long after we are gone
and rediscover
the half truths
we might had told
and still hold true