Shell

If I stoop to gather up Shell,
she will sit like Tinkerbell
in my hand.

Sky cries for her
on Tuesdays

I think its easier
to grieve on a regular basis
she says

Saves those
moments of
stagger step
oh my God realizations

which halt me
midway through a sentence

When we talk of Shell
the air softens
and sound
deadens

Life is muted beneath
the Grey outstretched membranous
wings of deaths hover

as if the rest of the Universe
can afford this small allowance

a tithe of respect

We visit infrequently together now

Sky braves Shells quiet dignified resolve
more readily than I

I want to be
untouched

No funeral

Shell says
her voice
the barest hint of breeze
across the tops of
thin green reeds

Her words
barely cause a ripple

yet

her dying

pushes out
in a wave

to lap upon us.

Sigh

We will say
we slept through October
curled around the hard nut
of how-it-is.

But that is not the truth of it
it does not explain
sleepless anxieties
the balled fists
and nail marks in palms.

It does not explain
extended silence
how the tick of the clock
can boom and thunder
waves of nothing to say
slamming against us

Your hands are melded to my spine
I fused our skin
so blood
you spill
each day
for her
now flows
through me

a constant pulse

a ragged beat


I have only my self to blame

so I blame you

We
who cannot be split asunder

dividing
cells cloning and
spreading

A virus
polluting each breath
till the rank
scent engulfs and consumes

Truth is a lie
carefully gift wrapped
in subjectivity

Yours or mine
both need a ribbon
to make it prettier.

Gimme a break, I can hardly write my name.....

I figure if I stay quiet
then I don't have
to do anything

Husks of days
laid waste
dog heels
in yapping cacophony's
embarrassing feet
bent on walking the line
without deviation

We are sacrosanct
a holy union of ideals
praying at each other
with smooth fingers
pressed in supplication

Fucking is a hymn

the harmony of flesh
rising to meet God

A perfect song
we sing
only sometimes.

Later

You never articulate the past

as if having one were
an option
and you had ticked ''no''
in the required box.

Its trace lingers though
a lilac scent
beneath the bittersweet
of coffee breath.

You are caught within
the stark truth
of a single
beam of sunlight
shafting through
the kitchen window
impaling you
upon the black-wood bench.

I don''t ask questions

only answers

and you give them
willingly
urgently
back arched in a question mark
chasing my inquiries back
into my mouth

sealing me
with a kiss

Later
we will
walk the silence
along Lygon
stretching its legs
letting it run ahead of us
unleashed

and likely to stray.

working it out

Sometimes

We cannot talk fast enough to escape
sometimes
we do.



We flow with words
lips move
sound emits
an articulation
divesting us of self
and offering the sacrifice
of giving.


The language shifts and morphs
leaping in nimble jumps from tongue
to air

to ears


I give freely
of thought
a dissolving phonic
rising as a lilt
falling to earth
a word rain
pattering without clatter
to the soft ground
and soaking in.

My mouth speaks the earth
in loam and deep tones
shaping rocks and the trunks of trees
between my teeth

Deftly
then
when we speak
an exchange is made
a trade of concept
no haggling on a grime street corner
the transaction is pure
unsullied with compromise
the words come forth
pass each other between us
to land upon cheek
splash into eye
or
kiss a trembling lip.

Speak then

and let us become

Untitled

I handed you
a swift of silk

to weave me a day


You came to me
later
with a night
wrought of amaranthine

Together
we colour each other
deepest
evening

News at six

And this report just to hand

There appears to have been
a major emotional train wreck

Details at this stage are sketchy
but sadly
children are believed to be among
the victims.

Initial reports suggest
the engine which drove the whole thing
decoupled from the rest
and plunged over a bridge
falling hopelessly into a
bottomless crevasse of failure

The rest of the train
is coasting slowly to a halt
edging closer and closer

to a complete stand still

We will update as more information
becomes available

I have found the answer to creative blanks


Drink far too much wine in the middle of
the week
wake up with a hair ball
the size of a panther
rollicking around in your mouth
dancing over lips
leaping from tooth to tooth
batting at the dangly thing
in the back of your throat

in playful abandon

He held

cinders of the sun

on the tip of his tongue

the taste of light

enticing

Making me real

Our days are tiny poems
winding around the
curve of morning.

I am writing you
constantly noting down
the way your face
lilts when you laugh
rhyming your smile
so I can remember it easily.

We gather secrets
so we can
write them on river stones
to toss mid stream
then watch the ripples
bring them back to us
reflecting truth
in the shimmering wavelets.


When your back is turned
I scrawl myself upon your neck

my name

over and over
a litany of me

on you

till you are more than my story

my aching fable

more than the sum of
fumbling words.



My fingers
create strophes
upon you
and
your skin
sings me out

in poem song.

You make me thrum

a guitar string

strummed

to resonate for hours

an echo following you to the car






I feel my blood

hum

as it runs after

the exhaust plume

you leave behind.

When I sleep

you come to
make love
to my ghosts

I stir

as the air splits
and writhes

wraiths
line up
to take you

I cannot wake up


its not me
you look for

as you draw us down

There is
no dancing around the issue
our feet
pattering rain
against the grain of floor boards

Shell has broken
opalescent shards
scatter upon us

You are a healer
I have seen it in
your lavender fingers
and witch hazel eyes

Heal her

We fall more heavily
a steady drumming
which awakens children
and makes the cat stir
in slumbers

I am begging you to heal,

graft fresh skin
over open wounds
gently settle pristine flesh
in place
smooth rippled agony's.

We are colder now
hail slamming
and dancing upon
the earth
rushing headlong into storm

When you cry
I know we are forsaken
tears of molten gold
and loss so deep
the machines of man
will never reach it

Shell is broken

and you are
weeping me
quiet love

If this then
is the Hand of God
then place it upon my brow

Rest blue nebular fingers
upon mine eyes

Release the fire ball
and hold me in its place

The Marble Pedestal (Title provided by Burning Moon productions)

She did not turn away.

The curve of her body
a question mark against
the morning risen
catching the promise
of a new day
upon her lips
and tasting hope.

She lay the sun
on her palm
and gently
blew upon it.

A spray of rays
surged in all directions.

Blinding
defining moments
till all there was
was light.

She wove a midday meal
from whole cloth
and lavender thread
creating delectable’s upon
a spread check rug
resting on the springing
warm grass stalks.

Sour dough
and melting butter on a plate
strawberry jam
a dolloped red yearning
a cold white wine
chill condensation
wandering haphazard
down the glass.

She knelt
curled knees beneath her
allowed the late morning air
to caress
undress
and slowly
turn her to marble.

Draped in wildflower
and tangled weed
speckled in shades
of moss and lichen
the earth
embraced cool stone

caressing

the jut of her chin

swell of calf

arch of neck.

Happy Easter


A chocolate kiss
smears
and melts

Wrapper discarded
crinkles beneath
bare feet

Bunny ears eaten
to raggedy edge

Wind
howls against
window pane
keeping bluster out
while Easter
eases beside
the open fire

Red wine
pours
into a mouth
full of dairy milk

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