(the 20th of December 2011, Dahab)
Another day
In search of Paradise
The Blue beckons unnervingly
Simpering body
Captive in its own singularity
I banish all memory
Of a world above
Of swimming in sorrow
And flogging dead horses
Too hot the seat of power
Be reborn in movement
Amphibian breath
Nothing can be lost
Nothing can be held
No need for blood
Or bread
Monday, 19 December 2011
Monday, 21 November 2011
Katabasis
(London, the 21st of November, 2011)
Klop Klop
Metronome rhythm
My own enforced step
Accompanies
My escort’s silent gait
On this melting pavement
He clutches at the dog lead,
The throwing stick,
The slobbered ball
And somehow also has manages to cradle
Hatred’s ugly, deformed body close to his chest
Klop Klop
I am the soundtrack to his distancing
The sharp heel at his back
(And I know for a fact
He abhors the sound
Of my cladded footsteps
On waxed floorboards,
Early in the morning,
A rhythm as unsettling
As a heart beating too fast)
I focus on the assault of cracks and bumps on my sole
In each-others company
The school run
Is a round-trip
To the Underworld
The parting at the corner
His form
Gently peeling away -
Harsh sentence
Orpheus won’t look back
I shake off
The shadow of Hades
And head home
Klop Klop
Metronome rhythm
My own enforced step
Accompanies
My escort’s silent gait
On this melting pavement
He clutches at the dog lead,
The throwing stick,
The slobbered ball
And somehow also has manages to cradle
Hatred’s ugly, deformed body close to his chest
Klop Klop
I am the soundtrack to his distancing
The sharp heel at his back
(And I know for a fact
He abhors the sound
Of my cladded footsteps
On waxed floorboards,
Early in the morning,
A rhythm as unsettling
As a heart beating too fast)
I focus on the assault of cracks and bumps on my sole
In each-others company
The school run
Is a round-trip
To the Underworld
The parting at the corner
His form
Gently peeling away -
Harsh sentence
Orpheus won’t look back
I shake off
The shadow of Hades
And head home
Thursday, 17 November 2011
I'm Selling a Life
(London, the 17th of November, 2011)
I’m selling a life
By the railway arches
The chug of the Orient Express
Zooming past our house at 11.11
I’m selling foxes
Meaowing before dawn
When the whole world is absent
And the light dusts the street pink
I’ll also throw in a game of hide-and seek
Behind giant tree ferns;
The unruly grass in lazy summer heat
The first ray of light
Filtered through the back window,
Licking the floorboards,
The sheets,
The walls
And you can also have
The stars and the moon
The colours, the textures, the boiler, the fixtures
The piano trills,
The building maintenance bills
Hand in hand we’ll brave the noise
Outside the womb
Life is change
The rest is
Tap-dancing on a tomb.
I’m selling a life
By the railway arches
The chug of the Orient Express
Zooming past our house at 11.11
I’m selling foxes
Meaowing before dawn
When the whole world is absent
And the light dusts the street pink
I’ll also throw in a game of hide-and seek
Behind giant tree ferns;
The unruly grass in lazy summer heat
The first ray of light
Filtered through the back window,
Licking the floorboards,
The sheets,
The walls
And you can also have
The stars and the moon
The colours, the textures, the boiler, the fixtures
The piano trills,
The building maintenance bills
Hand in hand we’ll brave the noise
Outside the womb
Life is change
The rest is
Tap-dancing on a tomb.
Monday, 7 November 2011
Styx
(the 7th of November, 2011)
Hey, little boy
Chewing on mints
Suckling at a bottle of water
You come again untied
Your foot has slipped out
Exposing
A hurried dip in the Styx
The failed protection of a distracted mother
Who let the ball bounce and fall where it may
Who condemned a child
To watch over the world as it turns
Forever pushing spiders up a wall
Hey, little boy
Chewing on mints
Suckling at a bottle of water
You come again untied
Your foot has slipped out
Exposing
A hurried dip in the Styx
The failed protection of a distracted mother
Who let the ball bounce and fall where it may
Who condemned a child
To watch over the world as it turns
Forever pushing spiders up a wall
X-Factor
(By Gub, November, 2011)
Whatever I got..
It ain't it!
The lure of the
Masses
The fake eye-lashes
The pauses and groans
Barbed undertones,
Judges bewitched
Contestants
"bitched"
I love your song
But you got it all wrong
Your hair, your face,
Your nose in the wrong place
I mean I know it's demeaning
This lack of feeling
No dignity grasped, or
Lost in the past
A meat Market of
Mediocrity - no public
Sobriety.
Affected, Half
Evil, freak-dome
Cathedral....
It's just a laff
To watch people's
Belief in themselves
Live or die
Gladiators
Craze - washed in
Blue light - sequinned haze
Was it ever thus
That mortal's die
Climbing Olympus ...
For sure Icarus flies
Too near the sun
And collapses burnt
Underground in Hades
Cave -- where purgatorial
Fires laser deep into his body
Toasted vanity --
I could have been a contender,
Pretender -- more like. For what
Purpose -- to entertain those whose vanity is fear, who shelter from the light that the less thoughtful and foolish burn in their place -- the cathartic fumes of another's sacrifice...
Really -- just a bit of harmless
Fun?
I'd rather watch porn - where fame's a notable negation of shame and exploitation not better no, but more honest for it's visibility....
Whatever I got..
It ain't it!
The lure of the
Masses
The fake eye-lashes
The pauses and groans
Barbed undertones,
Judges bewitched
Contestants
"bitched"
I love your song
But you got it all wrong
Your hair, your face,
Your nose in the wrong place
I mean I know it's demeaning
This lack of feeling
No dignity grasped, or
Lost in the past
A meat Market of
Mediocrity - no public
Sobriety.
Affected, Half
Evil, freak-dome
Cathedral....
It's just a laff
To watch people's
Belief in themselves
Live or die
Gladiators
Craze - washed in
Blue light - sequinned haze
Was it ever thus
That mortal's die
Climbing Olympus ...
For sure Icarus flies
Too near the sun
And collapses burnt
Underground in Hades
Cave -- where purgatorial
Fires laser deep into his body
Toasted vanity --
I could have been a contender,
Pretender -- more like. For what
Purpose -- to entertain those whose vanity is fear, who shelter from the light that the less thoughtful and foolish burn in their place -- the cathartic fumes of another's sacrifice...
Really -- just a bit of harmless
Fun?
I'd rather watch porn - where fame's a notable negation of shame and exploitation not better no, but more honest for it's visibility....
To an Orphan
(the 7th of November, 2011)
Life is a selfish mother
Who won't share the fruit you say
How foolish to pay
Some Body to warm up the air
Map your gaze on a carpet
And duck the implacable logic of death
Oh, let's melt these snowballs, I plead
Don't you want the Ice Age to end?
But you've long been gone
And thoughts echo
Like stones in a cave
I rattle in my crib
No drums to beat
The silence away
Life is a selfish mother
Who won't share the fruit you say
How foolish to pay
Some Body to warm up the air
Map your gaze on a carpet
And duck the implacable logic of death
Oh, let's melt these snowballs, I plead
Don't you want the Ice Age to end?
But you've long been gone
And thoughts echo
Like stones in a cave
I rattle in my crib
No drums to beat
The silence away
Thursday, 27 October 2011
Self Same Prayer
(By Gub, 2006)
The willow fell
Deep inside
wended brook
Love came.
Laughter shook
Life wept
Joy,
danced,
So much
That united
We divided
birth and death
With child
Love no longer
Ours
But stolen
By natural duty
new
Parent rivalry
Sure
Cupid looses
Some arrows
When babies stalk
private haunt
Of lover's
mightiest
universe.....
The willow fell
Deep inside
wended brook
Love came.
Laughter shook
Life wept
Joy,
danced,
So much
That united
We divided
birth and death
With child
Love no longer
Ours
But stolen
By natural duty
new
Parent rivalry
Sure
Cupid looses
Some arrows
When babies stalk
private haunt
Of lover's
mightiest
universe.....
Tuesday, 11 October 2011
Cambrian
(London, the 11th of October, 2011)
In waiting
But not wanton
Keep me waiting
Guard the hour
Let’s not rush into Cambrian
Where beasts
Lurk uninhibited and loose
Call as you wish upon mute fairies
Strung parakeets and
Riddle dinosaurs
But never watch
As I take off my shoes.
In waiting
But not wanton
Keep me waiting
Guard the hour
Let’s not rush into Cambrian
Where beasts
Lurk uninhibited and loose
Call as you wish upon mute fairies
Strung parakeets and
Riddle dinosaurs
But never watch
As I take off my shoes.
Thursday, 6 October 2011
Steve Jobs and Your Death
(the 6th of October, 2011, London)
In my dream you were dead.
I touched the gray stubble
You were a pierced membrane and the exposed core
Reminded me of that
Frog I had to pin down and cut open
In Biology class
Of my surprise to find no blood - just the
Gray nerve threads. I do not know what I was looking for.
I was looking for an offering, an experiment
A rehearsal.It was neat.
Yes, your skin was like the bleached shell of an egg
I lied. I didn’t touch you. I got up as I couldn’t de-tangle you
From sheets and duvet, from your own body heat.
I wasn’t surprised to be alone. It was as if the morning
was a page torn from a book and I was missing some sentences.
When does the panic set in – the feeling of being wrapped up in loneliness as in a new skin.
At what point do you suppose you feel your fingers shrink as the delta of blood abandons extremities, to pool inside,
in response to some invisible thermostat set on "cold"
I had an urge to bounce on the bed,
to land hard on your chest,
to let the daylight in and slam the toilet seat.
Maybe provoke you with some pungent smell of bleach or shout in your ear.
But I stood still, imagining the foolishness of shouting into the receiver of a cut-off telephone.
You’ll forgive my hovering around the bed -
how do you not stare in the afterglow of a supernova.
And then you got up, but hang on it doesn’t end there.
I needed to know – the exact date.
I had it stored on my computer, but I couldn’t remember the password. And Steve Jobs himself turned up dressed in his trademark blue jeans and black polo turtleneck to hack it. And days later I tripped over his death on the internet and they buried him in his trademark blue jeans and black polo turtleneck, and do you suppose he knew?
In my dream you were dead.
I touched the gray stubble
You were a pierced membrane and the exposed core
Reminded me of that
Frog I had to pin down and cut open
In Biology class
Of my surprise to find no blood - just the
Gray nerve threads. I do not know what I was looking for.
I was looking for an offering, an experiment
A rehearsal.It was neat.
Yes, your skin was like the bleached shell of an egg
I lied. I didn’t touch you. I got up as I couldn’t de-tangle you
From sheets and duvet, from your own body heat.
I wasn’t surprised to be alone. It was as if the morning
was a page torn from a book and I was missing some sentences.
When does the panic set in – the feeling of being wrapped up in loneliness as in a new skin.
At what point do you suppose you feel your fingers shrink as the delta of blood abandons extremities, to pool inside,
in response to some invisible thermostat set on "cold"
I had an urge to bounce on the bed,
to land hard on your chest,
to let the daylight in and slam the toilet seat.
Maybe provoke you with some pungent smell of bleach or shout in your ear.
But I stood still, imagining the foolishness of shouting into the receiver of a cut-off telephone.
You’ll forgive my hovering around the bed -
how do you not stare in the afterglow of a supernova.
And then you got up, but hang on it doesn’t end there.
I needed to know – the exact date.
I had it stored on my computer, but I couldn’t remember the password. And Steve Jobs himself turned up dressed in his trademark blue jeans and black polo turtleneck to hack it. And days later I tripped over his death on the internet and they buried him in his trademark blue jeans and black polo turtleneck, and do you suppose he knew?
Sunday, 4 September 2011
Mennen to Menin
(By Sil, the 31st of August, 2011, Ypres, Belgium)
The road to Menin
A tongue of tarmac
Lashing out
From the jaws of a town
Hiding old scars
With new brick
Gub is looking for graves
I am looking for poppies
But they do not grow
As the poet had promised
Instead corn plants
Frozen in the sun
Huddle together
Proud soldiers
Cradling unripe grenades
We get lost in this La Mancha
Of farms yielding men
Unknown in death
They say God knows who they are
As if He was the
Score-sheet keeper
In a child’s game of strategy
The silent reaper
Of souls
History hides
In the fat man’s back garden
Hoarder of contorted metal
Peep-show ringmaster
We pay to enter
What others prayed to exit
On Hill 62 the earth
Is a wound not allowed to heal
A specimen displayed
For specialized appeal
Back in the fields
Flemish farmers seed for winter
They spray with muck
Turn on the track
And leave the dead to feed
The crops of the living
The road to Menin
A tongue of tarmac
Lashing out
From the jaws of a town
Hiding old scars
With new brick
Gub is looking for graves
I am looking for poppies
But they do not grow
As the poet had promised
Instead corn plants
Frozen in the sun
Huddle together
Proud soldiers
Cradling unripe grenades
We get lost in this La Mancha
Of farms yielding men
Unknown in death
They say God knows who they are
As if He was the
Score-sheet keeper
In a child’s game of strategy
The silent reaper
Of souls
History hides
In the fat man’s back garden
Hoarder of contorted metal
Peep-show ringmaster
We pay to enter
What others prayed to exit
On Hill 62 the earth
Is a wound not allowed to heal
A specimen displayed
For specialized appeal
Back in the fields
Flemish farmers seed for winter
They spray with muck
Turn on the track
And leave the dead to feed
The crops of the living
The Red House With Angels of Stone
(By Sil, La Roche, Belgium)
The snow in La Roche
Tastes of lead
It falls in chunks
The size of shredded paper planes
Six men meet
At the corner of the red house
With stone angels
A short squint in the blizzard
To read allegience in the shape of a hat
And duty on lapels
For good and bad is camouflaged
In similar shades of green
Men sent to play at survival
With mess-tins and half fork/half spoons
They plunge at each other
Incredulous and relieved
To find someone on their side
So far from home
At the junction where death meets victory
At the corner of the red house
With angels of stone
The snow in La Roche
Tastes of lead
It falls in chunks
The size of shredded paper planes
Six men meet
At the corner of the red house
With stone angels
A short squint in the blizzard
To read allegience in the shape of a hat
And duty on lapels
For good and bad is camouflaged
In similar shades of green
Men sent to play at survival
With mess-tins and half fork/half spoons
They plunge at each other
Incredulous and relieved
To find someone on their side
So far from home
At the junction where death meets victory
At the corner of the red house
With angels of stone
Late Arrival
(By Gub, Smaland, Sweden, the 20th of August)
The measurer is time.
Time to recall;
To catch the feather’s drift
Downward –
The child’s call
A bell – so sonorous – in the dark,
Making light work of weight
The voice that lifts the shroud
And unveils the dawn
The bedraggled guest arriving late
For August’s dusk – too
Early for Autumn’s glory
The harvest cheer
Luminous and incandescent
The humungous moon
And the man, with the child’s face,
Drowns in unspent history, in a world
Weary with thought, deeds dedicated to;
He knows not what.
The lake – still in the wildernes
That sunlight settles,
Cloudless
A beam of nothing
Falls like a heavenly laser
On single
Breathless
Reed.
The measurer is time.
Time to recall;
To catch the feather’s drift
Downward –
The child’s call
A bell – so sonorous – in the dark,
Making light work of weight
The voice that lifts the shroud
And unveils the dawn
The bedraggled guest arriving late
For August’s dusk – too
Early for Autumn’s glory
The harvest cheer
Luminous and incandescent
The humungous moon
And the man, with the child’s face,
Drowns in unspent history, in a world
Weary with thought, deeds dedicated to;
He knows not what.
The lake – still in the wildernes
That sunlight settles,
Cloudless
A beam of nothing
Falls like a heavenly laser
On single
Breathless
Reed.
Lessons
(By Sil, Smaland, Sweden)
Don't march
Through the Kingdom of Glass
You are a companion of childhood
Not child
Even if you climb the porch
On the shores of heaven
The fall is just as hard
Don't march
Through the Kingdom of Glass
You are a companion of childhood
Not child
Even if you climb the porch
On the shores of heaven
The fall is just as hard
Wants and Needs
(By Sil, Oland, Sweden, the 19th of August)
The child wants
The father needs
The mother influences the odds
With a clinched jaw
Divorced from want or need
Moments of bliss
Aimless pinball
Played with not enough coins
And we sink into silence
A plush curtain pulled over the world
Not even curiosity
Can break a good game of Withhold
The child wants
The father needs
The mother influences the odds
With a clinched jaw
Divorced from want or need
Moments of bliss
Aimless pinball
Played with not enough coins
And we sink into silence
A plush curtain pulled over the world
Not even curiosity
Can break a good game of Withhold
We Cannot Read
(By Sil, Halens, Sweden, the 18th of August, 2011)
God’s summer cottage
Is ablaze this evening
Clouds kiss their impressions
On rusted water
Beauty delivered at high voltage
Mushrooms blister in the shadow
So much to harvest
Torn leaves from the
Book of nature
Lie now scattered in the meadow
And we cannot read
These woods have long been deserted
By fairies and dwarves
For under Sense’s
Monkish robe
One cannot dress Spirit
In bright silk scarves
God’s summer cottage
Is ablaze this evening
Clouds kiss their impressions
On rusted water
Beauty delivered at high voltage
Mushrooms blister in the shadow
So much to harvest
Torn leaves from the
Book of nature
Lie now scattered in the meadow
And we cannot read
These woods have long been deserted
By fairies and dwarves
For under Sense’s
Monkish robe
One cannot dress Spirit
In bright silk scarves
Small Things
(By Sil, Copenhagen, the 15th of August, 2011)
Small things
Boxed up in definitive spaces
A mean tussle for order
Navigation by satellite
Lost from an inner sense of direction
Stars and domes
Purely ornamental
Running on a pier
a pathway
Into unmanned chaos
Spinning in the dark
Above a city forever dissolved by rain
Experiments with freedom
Behind graffiti walls
Have fun
Don’t run
No photo
Makeshift playgrounds
For improvised childhoods
Junkyard art
Revolution is a look
Over law’s shoulder
From time to time
The world needs recreating from scratch
But the Gods no longer envy
This Babel barrack
Small things
Boxed up in definitive spaces
A mean tussle for order
Navigation by satellite
Lost from an inner sense of direction
Stars and domes
Purely ornamental
Running on a pier
a pathway
Into unmanned chaos
Spinning in the dark
Above a city forever dissolved by rain
Experiments with freedom
Behind graffiti walls
Have fun
Don’t run
No photo
Makeshift playgrounds
For improvised childhoods
Junkyard art
Revolution is a look
Over law’s shoulder
From time to time
The world needs recreating from scratch
But the Gods no longer envy
This Babel barrack
Monday, 8 August 2011
It Burns
(By Sil, the 8th of August, 2011, London riots)
Voices without faces
Itch for destruction
The streets become bull-rings
Rage demands satisfaction
It burns
I’m busy
Preserving my middle-class bubble
Sweeping up the garden
In the wind
Voices without faces
Itch for destruction
The streets become bull-rings
Rage demands satisfaction
It burns
I’m busy
Preserving my middle-class bubble
Sweeping up the garden
In the wind
I Get to See
(By Sil, the 8th of August, 2011)
Slip into the hour
A pocket of sanity
Let loose
Until we won’t know
What is yours, what is mine
Entangled humanity
Shared space; shared madness
And in this dance
We’ll slouch in tandem
We’ll tap our misery away
Stretch a leg
Itch in the head
Synchronised breathing
I get to see the hole between your legs
Your worn-out soles
And maybe you’ll notice a few things, too
My delinquency
Penchant for a dance with death
I am not steadfast
God knows I wobble
God knows I’m only two steps ahead
And I’ve been walking for years
Slip into the hour
A pocket of sanity
Let loose
Until we won’t know
What is yours, what is mine
Entangled humanity
Shared space; shared madness
And in this dance
We’ll slouch in tandem
We’ll tap our misery away
Stretch a leg
Itch in the head
Synchronised breathing
I get to see the hole between your legs
Your worn-out soles
And maybe you’ll notice a few things, too
My delinquency
Penchant for a dance with death
I am not steadfast
God knows I wobble
God knows I’m only two steps ahead
And I’ve been walking for years
Monday, 1 August 2011
A Silver Nutmeg and A Golden Pear
(By Sil, the 1st of July, London)
Sprout
From barren ground
Bear enchanted fruit
To lure a king’s daughter
A feat that only
The well loved deliver
But don’t climb the fence
Just for the thrill
Of a blushing pear’s kiss
The shudder of pulp crush
Against sore teeth
Allow the wind
A rush of whisper
To silence Fear’s hostile hiss
Wellcome the flail
With arms of gold and thoughts of silver
There is no sweeter ambush.
Sprout
From barren ground
Bear enchanted fruit
To lure a king’s daughter
A feat that only
The well loved deliver
But don’t climb the fence
Just for the thrill
Of a blushing pear’s kiss
The shudder of pulp crush
Against sore teeth
Allow the wind
A rush of whisper
To silence Fear’s hostile hiss
Wellcome the flail
With arms of gold and thoughts of silver
There is no sweeter ambush.
Confessio
By Sil
(the 1st of July, 2011
London)
I gave Luxuria legs to run on
I was intoxicated
With fumes of excitation
I got lost from time
Couldn’t find the handle on the door
Couldn’t see the gaps in the floor
Oh, God, don’t jab me
With the adrenaline-filled syringe
Administer a lesser punishment
For luxuriating in a reckless binge
I will repent
It was Pandora who opened the box
It was the Dark Priest
Who whispered casually over my shoulder:
“Lying is not one of the seven deadly sins”
Mea culpa
Mea culpa
Mea maxima culpa
(the 1st of July, 2011
London)
I gave Luxuria legs to run on
I was intoxicated
With fumes of excitation
I got lost from time
Couldn’t find the handle on the door
Couldn’t see the gaps in the floor
Oh, God, don’t jab me
With the adrenaline-filled syringe
Administer a lesser punishment
For luxuriating in a reckless binge
I will repent
It was Pandora who opened the box
It was the Dark Priest
Who whispered casually over my shoulder:
“Lying is not one of the seven deadly sins”
Mea culpa
Mea culpa
Mea maxima culpa
Saturday, 30 July 2011
The Silver Tree
(By Gub, the 30th of July, Hay-on-Wye)
Leaf'd willow
Bark'd oak
Or alder spine
The fruit falls
Sober flat
Upon the ground.
The buds that yearly
Blossom
Besmirched
By age
By time.
Tree's entropy
Pears turn to slime
And are crushed under foot
By innocent tramples
Not knowingly but once
Sourced
The loss forever
Associates fear with guilt
And... falling foliage, sound.
Forgotten child
Forget
Forgot
Further
Found...
Leaf'd willow
Bark'd oak
Or alder spine
The fruit falls
Sober flat
Upon the ground.
The buds that yearly
Blossom
Besmirched
By age
By time.
Tree's entropy
Pears turn to slime
And are crushed under foot
By innocent tramples
Not knowingly but once
Sourced
The loss forever
Associates fear with guilt
And... falling foliage, sound.
Forgotten child
Forget
Forgot
Further
Found...
Provocation
(By Sil, the 30th of July, 2011, HBC)
Think of me
Running in the heathlands
Covering your step
Treading the forbidden path to the left
And though your aversion
Will scour my calf like tangled gorse
I’ll break through
This partition taboo
I won’t stop
Until I’ve marvelled
At ink-stained rock
Submerged in froth
The morning sun
Casts on us all tomb divers
The same detached stare
Beauty cannot be fenced-off
And if you dare
Me
With one gentle brush of hand
I will prove
The mighty fortress you built on this beach
Is just a castle of sand
Think of me
Running in the heathlands
Covering your step
Treading the forbidden path to the left
And though your aversion
Will scour my calf like tangled gorse
I’ll break through
This partition taboo
I won’t stop
Until I’ve marvelled
At ink-stained rock
Submerged in froth
The morning sun
Casts on us all tomb divers
The same detached stare
Beauty cannot be fenced-off
And if you dare
Me
With one gentle brush of hand
I will prove
The mighty fortress you built on this beach
Is just a castle of sand
Wednesday, 27 July 2011
Swarm Intelligence
(By Sil, the 27th of July, 2011, London)
Staring at a screen I window-shop seduction
Glamour and song
The cross-section of a world
Where pain is articulate
And redemption is the sleek pomade
On a dandy’s moustache
Thoughts swarm like ants around a crust of bread
Collectables are rounded up and slobbered on
Relentlessly, concussively
I want to crush those trampling beasts
See them punctured like tulip bulbs in spring
I rail
I can’t dress up derail in gold string
Those who can do
Those who can’t – sting
Staring at a screen I window-shop seduction
Glamour and song
The cross-section of a world
Where pain is articulate
And redemption is the sleek pomade
On a dandy’s moustache
Thoughts swarm like ants around a crust of bread
Collectables are rounded up and slobbered on
Relentlessly, concussively
I want to crush those trampling beasts
See them punctured like tulip bulbs in spring
I rail
I can’t dress up derail in gold string
Those who can do
Those who can’t – sting
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Wound Man
(By Sil, the 26th of July, 2011, Bellenden Road)
You’re coming for a shave
Blood letting or are you
An embattled knave
Show me your gangrene
I have the tools
But you must not balk
At the warm pulsating mass
Nor faint at the sight of
Black oozing mud
My words will hack
Through the bone
With swift precision
Well sharpened saw
Oil of cloves to soothe
(We're out of booze)
A tooth, an amputation,
Whatever hurts
Whatever must be shorn
Wipe a blade clean
Through pain
We're reborn
(Isn't all therapy
Part love
Part medieval surgery?)
You’re coming for a shave
Blood letting or are you
An embattled knave
Show me your gangrene
I have the tools
But you must not balk
At the warm pulsating mass
Nor faint at the sight of
Black oozing mud
My words will hack
Through the bone
With swift precision
Well sharpened saw
Oil of cloves to soothe
(We're out of booze)
A tooth, an amputation,
Whatever hurts
Whatever must be shorn
Wipe a blade clean
Through pain
We're reborn
(Isn't all therapy
Part love
Part medieval surgery?)
Wednesday, 20 July 2011
Fatality
(By Sil, the19th of July, 2011, on the train to Hereford)
Today I’m wallowing
In bad luck
A piece of toast
Landed buttered side
On a dirty floor
Squashed
My brain
Forced large button
Into a tight buttonhole
Unfastened
Today I hang loose
Today
I’m a reckless recluse
I’ll run over
An innocent passenger
For a change
(Usually
I’m my own
Fatality)
They’ll ask
Did I derail
Am I deranged
Or was it suicide?
Today I’m wallowing
In bad luck
A piece of toast
Landed buttered side
On a dirty floor
Squashed
My brain
Forced large button
Into a tight buttonhole
Unfastened
Today I hang loose
Today
I’m a reckless recluse
I’ll run over
An innocent passenger
For a change
(Usually
I’m my own
Fatality)
They’ll ask
Did I derail
Am I deranged
Or was it suicide?
Monday, 18 July 2011
Into the Burning
(By Sil, the 18th of July, 2011, London)
There won’t be a song
For you tonight
Or ever
My fingers are mute
Could we just stare
Into the burning
My soul, thin paper
Dissolving into smoke
A doodle of delicate curls
Yes, I’m broke
It’s curious
It’s absorbing
Watching the entrails of a bonfire
So, let’s calmly
Allow the world to be reduced
To watery miasma
For a while
Stretch your arm
Touch the heat
But don’t fret
Don’t run away
The stars themselves
Are blisters
Enslaved by the beauty
Of all-consuming plasma.
There won’t be a song
For you tonight
Or ever
My fingers are mute
Could we just stare
Into the burning
My soul, thin paper
Dissolving into smoke
A doodle of delicate curls
Yes, I’m broke
It’s curious
It’s absorbing
Watching the entrails of a bonfire
So, let’s calmly
Allow the world to be reduced
To watery miasma
For a while
Stretch your arm
Touch the heat
But don’t fret
Don’t run away
The stars themselves
Are blisters
Enslaved by the beauty
Of all-consuming plasma.
Sunday, 10 July 2011
The Loom
(By Gub)
Love
The energiser
The blooming loom
Weaving light
From darkness' basket
blossoms
From the womb.
Yet there is
a brood
Of menace,
Twilight casts shadows from the hill
Sparks in the valley
Remind us
Winds, storms and winter
Can still prevail
What use our wants or longing
Desire unquenched
By petulance or pride
Love has its own vanity
Adolescent temper,
Unsure
As any bride.
Yet mellow with this madness
Give in slowly
To succulent thrill.
Harmony is ageing
Love's test
A patient
Still
The wicker
Hand of an ancient
Loved one
Clasped tight around
That ring
A band of metal faces
Outwards
A silver watermill
Light dances
Off the circle
Moments time inscribes
Those yesterdays
were once tomorrows
The gift
That love
Defined.
Love
The energiser
The blooming loom
Weaving light
From darkness' basket
blossoms
From the womb.
Yet there is
a brood
Of menace,
Twilight casts shadows from the hill
Sparks in the valley
Remind us
Winds, storms and winter
Can still prevail
What use our wants or longing
Desire unquenched
By petulance or pride
Love has its own vanity
Adolescent temper,
Unsure
As any bride.
Yet mellow with this madness
Give in slowly
To succulent thrill.
Harmony is ageing
Love's test
A patient
Still
The wicker
Hand of an ancient
Loved one
Clasped tight around
That ring
A band of metal faces
Outwards
A silver watermill
Light dances
Off the circle
Moments time inscribes
Those yesterdays
were once tomorrows
The gift
That love
Defined.
One Step... Further On
(By Gub, the 4th of July, 2011, London)
The wind felt tree,
Felled for fuel-
The child in the playground
Driving their own kids to school-
The pristine wedding gift, tarnished,
Bereft of sheen-
Away from the motions of marvel
From those now unseen-
The burden of science is to unlock
The past
Unravel the mystery of life with
Boundless zeal
Ignore the weakened answers
To an unquenchable expansive quest
The space between us shrinks, as conscience
Drifts-
Dark matter - irresolute, unresolvable-
A human symphony, cacophonic youth which age mutes into
a dull hiss
-A blur-
And we're gone
The wind felt tree,
Felled for fuel-
The child in the playground
Driving their own kids to school-
The pristine wedding gift, tarnished,
Bereft of sheen-
Away from the motions of marvel
From those now unseen-
The burden of science is to unlock
The past
Unravel the mystery of life with
Boundless zeal
Ignore the weakened answers
To an unquenchable expansive quest
The space between us shrinks, as conscience
Drifts-
Dark matter - irresolute, unresolvable-
A human symphony, cacophonic youth which age mutes into
a dull hiss
-A blur-
And we're gone
Friday, 8 July 2011
Pieces
(By Sil, the 8th of July, London)
History still flows
And I’ll get swept away
Unlike a salesman
History doesn’t knock shyly
Unlike a thief
It doesn’t try its luck slyly
Probing at the cat-flap.
Spelled out and folded thin
The deluge spills in
Through an intentional slit in the door
With tardy eloquence
It blows over the soup of past hurts
If you attack it, tear at it and
Shove the pieces in the bin
It still beckons.
Two, eight, thirteen, twenty
Numbers attached to unrest
What to commemorate
What to forget?
How to avoid feeling like
I’ve tripped in the wings
And stumbled into someone
Else’s drama
An unrehearsed guest?
History still flows
And I’ll get swept away
Unlike a salesman
History doesn’t knock shyly
Unlike a thief
It doesn’t try its luck slyly
Probing at the cat-flap.
Spelled out and folded thin
The deluge spills in
Through an intentional slit in the door
With tardy eloquence
It blows over the soup of past hurts
If you attack it, tear at it and
Shove the pieces in the bin
It still beckons.
Two, eight, thirteen, twenty
Numbers attached to unrest
What to commemorate
What to forget?
How to avoid feeling like
I’ve tripped in the wings
And stumbled into someone
Else’s drama
An unrehearsed guest?
Saturday, 25 June 2011
Compacted
(By Sil, the 25th of June, London)
Growing into love
I had to learn from trees
Who confine
An infinite thirst for light
Inside small, delicate panes of leaf
And as I see the source
Of my contentment
Compacted down
To one man’s form
His fingers play to quell
This startled heart’s
Un-restful pulse
His whispered plea:
"Hush, now, my love.
Time is the master ghost
Who redeems all broken souls."
Growing into love
I had to learn from trees
Who confine
An infinite thirst for light
Inside small, delicate panes of leaf
And as I see the source
Of my contentment
Compacted down
To one man’s form
His fingers play to quell
This startled heart’s
Un-restful pulse
His whispered plea:
"Hush, now, my love.
Time is the master ghost
Who redeems all broken souls."
Thursday, 23 June 2011
Strange Attractor
(By Sil, Hanging Bank Cottage, the18th of June, 2011)
I sit with you
In the terror
Of your precision
Words become
Little toy-cars
I cannot kick-start
The wiring and the track
Seem intact
But the flow is not the circuitry
Puzzled, I silently sulk
I have but a map of your world
Etched in my mind
A mute story of fear and dread
Of turning away
Of Protest’s
Hardened bread
I make a mistake
And then another
There’s no other way to communicate
That I wear the coat of your language
Second hand
That like you I swim
In turbulent waters
Not walk on solid middle-ground
I know all too well the taming powers
Of correction
Delivered with a heavy hand.
With every swipe you take
With every tiny speck
Of imprecision removed
There’s less and less of us
Communication is
A Strange Attractor
Forever gravitating
Around an empty space
Once you remove all error
There’s nothing left but
The silent perfection
Of a white page
I sit with you
In the terror
Of your precision
Words become
Little toy-cars
I cannot kick-start
The wiring and the track
Seem intact
But the flow is not the circuitry
Puzzled, I silently sulk
I have but a map of your world
Etched in my mind
A mute story of fear and dread
Of turning away
Of Protest’s
Hardened bread
I make a mistake
And then another
There’s no other way to communicate
That I wear the coat of your language
Second hand
That like you I swim
In turbulent waters
Not walk on solid middle-ground
I know all too well the taming powers
Of correction
Delivered with a heavy hand.
With every swipe you take
With every tiny speck
Of imprecision removed
There’s less and less of us
Communication is
A Strange Attractor
Forever gravitating
Around an empty space
Once you remove all error
There’s nothing left but
The silent perfection
Of a white page
Sunday, 5 June 2011
A Seeing-Through
(By Sil, the 5th of June, 2011, London)
The merchant of silks
Sized me up
And declared:
“You’re one who escaped and explored”.
Yes – I dug my claws into the mortar
I cried from the ancient rooftops:
I’ll never be trapped behind walls.
Only in dreams I tread
The grand old mansion
Grounds
Where ladybirds
Cusped by inquisitive hands
Were lost on epic journeys
Only in dreams I still wonder
At the hollow
Jet-less fountain
And wallow
In the scent of
Ripe elderflower
I was tired
Lied on your bed
Strange unhomely pod
Buried deep into
The pad flesh
I could still feel the pea.
The merchant of silks
Sized me up
And declared:
“You’re one who escaped and explored”.
Yes – I dug my claws into the mortar
I cried from the ancient rooftops:
I’ll never be trapped behind walls.
Only in dreams I tread
The grand old mansion
Grounds
Where ladybirds
Cusped by inquisitive hands
Were lost on epic journeys
Only in dreams I still wonder
At the hollow
Jet-less fountain
And wallow
In the scent of
Ripe elderflower
I was tired
Lied on your bed
Strange unhomely pod
Buried deep into
The pad flesh
I could still feel the pea.
Sunday, 15 May 2011
Birthday Girl
(By Sil, the 15th of May, 2011, London)
“But I didn’t choose to be”
A refrain to my mother
Carolled spitefully
By a whinging, raging child:
“So why did you have me?”
A mistake
Still counts as a choice
It’s a bird deaf
To the effect
Of its own trilling voice
Side-by-side
In matching holiday skirts
She said: “You’re part of me”.
Later,
Her skirt left on the beach
Flailing in the wind
Like the parachute crown
Of a born-again dandelion
The insistent,
Unbearable itch
In my chest
Grasping that she could feel whole
Without me
For attempting a climb
Would the hiker leave something
As vital as a limb behind?
Left to the comfort of thumbs:
One rubbing the velvety bottom
Of Tom-Tom
The other - a fool’s breast
To suckle on with a sore gum
Five, eighteen, twenty-five
Thirty-one
Every birthday marks
The growing jaw of separation
Between that mother and this child
And a contradiction:
I didn’t choose to be
Yet I don’t stop counting.
“But I didn’t choose to be”
A refrain to my mother
Carolled spitefully
By a whinging, raging child:
“So why did you have me?”
A mistake
Still counts as a choice
It’s a bird deaf
To the effect
Of its own trilling voice
Side-by-side
In matching holiday skirts
She said: “You’re part of me”.
Later,
Her skirt left on the beach
Flailing in the wind
Like the parachute crown
Of a born-again dandelion
The insistent,
Unbearable itch
In my chest
Grasping that she could feel whole
Without me
For attempting a climb
Would the hiker leave something
As vital as a limb behind?
Left to the comfort of thumbs:
One rubbing the velvety bottom
Of Tom-Tom
The other - a fool’s breast
To suckle on with a sore gum
Five, eighteen, twenty-five
Thirty-one
Every birthday marks
The growing jaw of separation
Between that mother and this child
And a contradiction:
I didn’t choose to be
Yet I don’t stop counting.
Thursday, 5 May 2011
Heraldry
(By Sil, the 5th of May, London)
On my shield
I drew a peacock feather
A butterfly and
Woodbine leaves
When fear
Obliterates the nest of memory
When adornment
Can no longer conceal
The true state of me
I place power and knowledge
In beauty
I forgive Psyche
Her brittle wings
Pray that
My love will not injure
Those to whom it clings.
Swallow
The putrid apple of shame
But never
Become a hate recruit.
After all,
Don’t butterflies too
Feed on rotten fruit?
On my shield
I drew a peacock feather
A butterfly and
Woodbine leaves
When fear
Obliterates the nest of memory
When adornment
Can no longer conceal
The true state of me
I place power and knowledge
In beauty
I forgive Psyche
Her brittle wings
Pray that
My love will not injure
Those to whom it clings.
Swallow
The putrid apple of shame
But never
Become a hate recruit.
After all,
Don’t butterflies too
Feed on rotten fruit?
Tuesday, 15 March 2011
Until the End of the World
(By Sil, the 15th of March, London)
We’re here to build
Castles in the sand
To bestow wings on angels
To dabble in the puzzle
Of reality
Tugging hard
At the fraying seam of
Human certainty
Absorbed by wonders
Encoded in divine slang
Our brief existence
Is the window
Through which
A mourning Universe
Catches reflections of
Its lost symmetry
Before the Bang.
We’re starspit.
Unholy because
Nothing holds
This world;
A rubber-band jerked skip
Between too hot
And too cold.
In the galactic
Delayed backstory
We saw our future.
A true prophecy:
When the warped Alchemist
Is done transforming
Gold into Lead
When the stellar fire is out
Then
The End will come
Chilled unhingement from
Quantum attraction
Welcome respite
A licence to surrender
The rock of
Perpetual reaction.
We’re here to build
Castles in the sand
To bestow wings on angels
To dabble in the puzzle
Of reality
Tugging hard
At the fraying seam of
Human certainty
Absorbed by wonders
Encoded in divine slang
Our brief existence
Is the window
Through which
A mourning Universe
Catches reflections of
Its lost symmetry
Before the Bang.
We’re starspit.
Unholy because
Nothing holds
This world;
A rubber-band jerked skip
Between too hot
And too cold.
In the galactic
Delayed backstory
We saw our future.
A true prophecy:
When the warped Alchemist
Is done transforming
Gold into Lead
When the stellar fire is out
Then
The End will come
Chilled unhingement from
Quantum attraction
Welcome respite
A licence to surrender
The rock of
Perpetual reaction.
Last Night I knew...
(By Gub, the 13th of March, Toronto)
Last night I knew what faith was.
It’s a dream you never wake from.
I saw an x-ray of a human shoulder-blade, taken of a young boy.
The blade had the distinct ossification of a wing bone.
It was so clear to see.
In that moment I knew I was looking at the x-ray of an angel.
A manifestation of divine purpose.
In my dream I felt the ecstasy of absolute knowledge –
It was total and blinding.
Last night I knew what faith was.
It’s a dream you never wake from.
I saw an x-ray of a human shoulder-blade, taken of a young boy.
The blade had the distinct ossification of a wing bone.
It was so clear to see.
In that moment I knew I was looking at the x-ray of an angel.
A manifestation of divine purpose.
In my dream I felt the ecstasy of absolute knowledge –
It was total and blinding.
The Space Where Heaven Closes...
(By Gub, Toronto, the 13th of March)
...the dark arc of the firmament
This edge of fire,
Burns like phosphorous
Against a flotilla of stars.
Circle back
Through breathes
Of time
Capture each second of
Wakefulness,
Each nuance
Missed,
A child’s cough, a
Chuckle of laughter
Those red rose petals
Crushed flat by a kiss.
The shift in your gown,
As Love opens
That draft of bliss.
Drift through heaven
Alone,
The past
Behind me closes,
Home seems hopeless
And far
Ridiculous
Your closeness in my heart.
Time and space form a celestial
Body,
An unholy bar.
...the dark arc of the firmament
This edge of fire,
Burns like phosphorous
Against a flotilla of stars.
Circle back
Through breathes
Of time
Capture each second of
Wakefulness,
Each nuance
Missed,
A child’s cough, a
Chuckle of laughter
Those red rose petals
Crushed flat by a kiss.
The shift in your gown,
As Love opens
That draft of bliss.
Drift through heaven
Alone,
The past
Behind me closes,
Home seems hopeless
And far
Ridiculous
Your closeness in my heart.
Time and space form a celestial
Body,
An unholy bar.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
3 Minute Poem
(By Gub, the 3rd of March, Toronto)
I'm drifting in
And out
Of this meeting
And wishing I
Could leave
My body,
My mind
Depart please
Now
Over
The sea
It's 4pm in my world and
Midnight in yours.
The women are droning
Horse-voiced
Wraiths
Dry and sharp
Arid
Humorless
I yearn
To laugh
Flex ribs
Around a
Funny cotton-reel
Wound tight around a
rubber band and a pencil
Play tanks across the grass
See you smile, watch our son
Roll down the bank
Our dog dive in and out
Of the daisies and butterflies
Flirt free....
I'm drifting in
And out
Of this meeting
And wishing I
Could leave
My body,
My mind
Depart please
Now
Over
The sea
It's 4pm in my world and
Midnight in yours.
The women are droning
Horse-voiced
Wraiths
Dry and sharp
Arid
Humorless
I yearn
To laugh
Flex ribs
Around a
Funny cotton-reel
Wound tight around a
rubber band and a pencil
Play tanks across the grass
See you smile, watch our son
Roll down the bank
Our dog dive in and out
Of the daisies and butterflies
Flirt free....
Wednesday, 2 March 2011
Spring Chorale
(the 2nd of March, 2011, London)
Just a little sunshine
Just a little push
A child's
Rhymed promise that
Crocuses will show
And leaves unfurl
Lush
Hailed freedom from
Basement entrapment
And straggled
Sofa encampment
A spirited stride
Into spring's
Chorale
To crush
The bitter seeds
Of winter
Exile
Just a little sunshine
Just a little push
A child's
Rhymed promise that
Crocuses will show
And leaves unfurl
Lush
Hailed freedom from
Basement entrapment
And straggled
Sofa encampment
A spirited stride
Into spring's
Chorale
To crush
The bitter seeds
Of winter
Exile
Monday, 28 February 2011
Uninvited
(the 28th of February, 2010, London)
I wasn’t invited.
At the banquet
I wasn’t offered a seat
No food was laid before me.
Empty
I watched others eat
And foraged for leftovers
When
Beyond replete
No one but me
Was left wanting
The excess meat of
Extravagance
Eyes alight
I wondered
What it would be like
To never question
Your right to be
To wear the seamless coat
Of entitlement
Like 'The Free':
With nonchalance
And grace.
The sure-footed.
Admire their solid ankles
Their feet
Heavy anchors
Secure against
The shifting sands
Of society.
The tilted chin
The assertive grin
They use up the space
Unapologetic.
They take their time:
Monologic.
Once you believe
There are Gods
Walking amongst us
Royalty
Unburdened by doubt
How would you not want
To neighbour them
In that exclusive
Dwelling of
Satiated
Sanctity?
I wasn’t invited.
At the banquet
I wasn’t offered a seat
No food was laid before me.
Empty
I watched others eat
And foraged for leftovers
When
Beyond replete
No one but me
Was left wanting
The excess meat of
Extravagance
Eyes alight
I wondered
What it would be like
To never question
Your right to be
To wear the seamless coat
Of entitlement
Like 'The Free':
With nonchalance
And grace.
The sure-footed.
Admire their solid ankles
Their feet
Heavy anchors
Secure against
The shifting sands
Of society.
The tilted chin
The assertive grin
They use up the space
Unapologetic.
They take their time:
Monologic.
Once you believe
There are Gods
Walking amongst us
Royalty
Unburdened by doubt
How would you not want
To neighbour them
In that exclusive
Dwelling of
Satiated
Sanctity?
Monday, 21 February 2011
Depart
(By Gub, the 20th of February, Toronto)
I had a dream
While you were sleeping
That the world was dead.
Aside from you
(And me) and
The things
In our heads;
Theo and Mia
And the houses
We loved and the kids
Staying over
And beaches
And barns
And camping in clover...
All safe from harm.
Safe in the story
The past
Our charm
To ward off
The warlocks
Keep evil
At bay
The unremembered
World dies
For sure
Recall the day.
I had a dream
While you were sleeping
That the world was dead.
Aside from you
(And me) and
The things
In our heads;
Theo and Mia
And the houses
We loved and the kids
Staying over
And beaches
And barns
And camping in clover...
All safe from harm.
Safe in the story
The past
Our charm
To ward off
The warlocks
Keep evil
At bay
The unremembered
World dies
For sure
Recall the day.
Sunday, 20 February 2011
Arrival
(the 20th of February, 2011, London)
Lay
Unfamiliar mound
With crumbs of
Dreams and
Tangled threads
To find
A way bound
Lagging way behind
Pursuit
Is a restless hound
I carry fear and
Hope that
All things missing
Will soon be found.
Ride
Taxis, planes
Underground trains
Cross
Bridges over parallel
Muddy memory lanes
Finally arrived
Shattered
I sink into your arms
Thawing snow dissolved into
Thirsty ground.
I'm not your rock.
Just hardened
Play-dough
Warming
In your hand.
Lay
Unfamiliar mound
With crumbs of
Dreams and
Tangled threads
To find
A way bound
Lagging way behind
Pursuit
Is a restless hound
I carry fear and
Hope that
All things missing
Will soon be found.
Ride
Taxis, planes
Underground trains
Cross
Bridges over parallel
Muddy memory lanes
Finally arrived
Shattered
I sink into your arms
Thawing snow dissolved into
Thirsty ground.
I'm not your rock.
Just hardened
Play-dough
Warming
In your hand.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Being Normal
(the 8th of February, 2011, London)
I hear your plea.
What you want
Is to navigate
Across the wheezing sea
You dream
Of that mythical land
Where only the Good
Can hear the paradise bird sing.
But all you have is
A toy boat -
An old wind-up
With a broken spring
I hear your plea
For I am a fellow
Pilgrim to that holy place
Peddling distance
Between myself and
The ugly, twisted face
Of my inheritance
I do fear though
That if I ever
Enter
This promised heaven
Where the sage
Are always on the same page
Normality
Will turn out to be
Nothing more than
A colossal gilded cage.
I hear your plea.
What you want
Is to navigate
Across the wheezing sea
You dream
Of that mythical land
Where only the Good
Can hear the paradise bird sing.
But all you have is
A toy boat -
An old wind-up
With a broken spring
I hear your plea
For I am a fellow
Pilgrim to that holy place
Peddling distance
Between myself and
The ugly, twisted face
Of my inheritance
I do fear though
That if I ever
Enter
This promised heaven
Where the sage
Are always on the same page
Normality
Will turn out to be
Nothing more than
A colossal gilded cage.
Monday, 31 January 2011
Mimesis
(By Gub, the 30th of January, Toronto)
What thrusts the
Recalcitrant
Player
Towards the light?
Stretches the Signet’s
Neck
As a measuring tape
Records failure
Dispassionate as time.
This abusive desire for artifice,
For vision,
To re-dress the set.
Wretched the aspiration
To challenge imperfection
With inner beauty, or perceived
strengths.
In Wind and running water
Words drown.
The black swan’s
Victory is the suicide
Of the white swan
Love dies
Incomprehensive
Of duty -
To god.
Such hunger to
Exceed mortal
Station
Break the bounds
Of divine configuration.
To dream otherwise is insanity.
And yet,
We must.
What thrusts the
Recalcitrant
Player
Towards the light?
Stretches the Signet’s
Neck
As a measuring tape
Records failure
Dispassionate as time.
This abusive desire for artifice,
For vision,
To re-dress the set.
Wretched the aspiration
To challenge imperfection
With inner beauty, or perceived
strengths.
In Wind and running water
Words drown.
The black swan’s
Victory is the suicide
Of the white swan
Love dies
Incomprehensive
Of duty -
To god.
Such hunger to
Exceed mortal
Station
Break the bounds
Of divine configuration.
To dream otherwise is insanity.
And yet,
We must.
Longitude
(the 27th of January, London)
I’ve laboured
Triumphed
Over movement
And distance
Time’s hunger
Forgotten,
Firmly encased in a
Watch-size pocket.
Weary sentries guard
The lonely wolf
Of desire.
When the night is black
And the stars seem
Distant sea-gypsies,
Draw close to home
The perfect line
Where world begins,
Zero degrees of separation,
A lead back to you.
I’ve laboured
Triumphed
Over movement
And distance
Time’s hunger
Forgotten,
Firmly encased in a
Watch-size pocket.
Weary sentries guard
The lonely wolf
Of desire.
When the night is black
And the stars seem
Distant sea-gypsies,
Draw close to home
The perfect line
Where world begins,
Zero degrees of separation,
A lead back to you.
Saturday, 15 January 2011
In The Room
(the 15 of January, 2010, Ealing)
In the room, half past noon
We sat down and she said:
"You may pretend to be a professional
If you choose
But
You’re wearing the wrong coloured shoes
I can’t take my eyes off your silver shoes"
So I thought
I'm too visible
Your eyes too eager
Now that I've felt
Your bite
And I’m still here
Pretending the pieces of "I"
Are all together.
Lets find out whether
I can do enough
Yo take your mind
Off my
Wrong coloured shoes
To find out why the black bird in your head
Sings the blues.
In the room, half past one
We sat down and he said:
"I am the reason mum and dad
Still share the same bed
I am the saviour, the prophet,
The kid that the chef wouldn’t dare to buffet.
And I want to do good, and I want to do well-"
I just stared at him
As if under some spell.
And I too longed to worship this golden calf
And I could tell that
Love
Would never be sweeter
If I could hold
Those hands
Peeling with dryness
If I could kiss those eyes
Melting with sadness.
If I could just say:
You are good, my love, good.
The hour closing in on us,
I saw him away
Aura, wings and all,
Seeped through the door.
A golden ship sailing out of the bay.
And it felt as if light
Had been sucked out of the room.
Cinderella was left in rags
Holding a broom.
In the room, half past two
We sat down and she said
"Drugs have taken my son.
To me he is dead, to his own miserable habit wed.
I can’t cry no more"
And she wept and she wept
She was spilling all over the floor
I fought the flood
Threw buckets of water
Overboard
Until my arms were sore
Until I felt I could not hold this bending willow
Any more.
I kept my feet dry
My eyes firm on the shore.
Later, alone
On a platform to home
I took a chance look
Down the bottomless
Well of sadness
Searing incarnate madness
I cried raw tears
Under Detatchment’s
sturdy dome.
In the room, half past noon
We sat down and she said:
"You may pretend to be a professional
If you choose
But
You’re wearing the wrong coloured shoes
I can’t take my eyes off your silver shoes"
So I thought
I'm too visible
Your eyes too eager
Now that I've felt
Your bite
And I’m still here
Pretending the pieces of "I"
Are all together.
Lets find out whether
I can do enough
Yo take your mind
Off my
Wrong coloured shoes
To find out why the black bird in your head
Sings the blues.
In the room, half past one
We sat down and he said:
"I am the reason mum and dad
Still share the same bed
I am the saviour, the prophet,
The kid that the chef wouldn’t dare to buffet.
And I want to do good, and I want to do well-"
I just stared at him
As if under some spell.
And I too longed to worship this golden calf
And I could tell that
Love
Would never be sweeter
If I could hold
Those hands
Peeling with dryness
If I could kiss those eyes
Melting with sadness.
If I could just say:
You are good, my love, good.
The hour closing in on us,
I saw him away
Aura, wings and all,
Seeped through the door.
A golden ship sailing out of the bay.
And it felt as if light
Had been sucked out of the room.
Cinderella was left in rags
Holding a broom.
In the room, half past two
We sat down and she said
"Drugs have taken my son.
To me he is dead, to his own miserable habit wed.
I can’t cry no more"
And she wept and she wept
She was spilling all over the floor
I fought the flood
Threw buckets of water
Overboard
Until my arms were sore
Until I felt I could not hold this bending willow
Any more.
I kept my feet dry
My eyes firm on the shore.
Later, alone
On a platform to home
I took a chance look
Down the bottomless
Well of sadness
Searing incarnate madness
I cried raw tears
Under Detatchment’s
sturdy dome.
The Flood
(Boxing Day, 2010)
Pulling my son on a sledge
Treadmill of
White memories:
My father's arms -
Strong grip on the rope
And me
The load perched up
On green wood-planks
And rusted iron
Lost in exhilarating flight
On a country road.
I'm rushing now
Sleet dissolves the
Screen of my projections
And foamy flesh of
Unrolled snowmen.
My son is whinging
Against the cold.
Stubborn, I carry on.
By God
This reluctant child
Who won't play ball
Who rejects his father's embrace,
And strangers' eyes rested on his face,
Will have it all!
Pulling my son on a sledge
Treadmill of
White memories:
My father's arms -
Strong grip on the rope
And me
The load perched up
On green wood-planks
And rusted iron
Lost in exhilarating flight
On a country road.
I'm rushing now
Sleet dissolves the
Screen of my projections
And foamy flesh of
Unrolled snowmen.
My son is whinging
Against the cold.
Stubborn, I carry on.
By God
This reluctant child
Who won't play ball
Who rejects his father's embrace,
And strangers' eyes rested on his face,
Will have it all!
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