Sunday

When we walked through fields forever
looking for the future ahead

Our worries yet to pass

now we stand on the spot we imagined
and wish for nothing more than the past.

The Moment of Falling Away

Carry & Bury

i'll carry and bury you in the eastern
river where its water will learn the
curves and chemicals of your body as
animals pick and pull it apart until
the oceans dry and the earth cracks
and your bones sift deep into the crust
then as the rain returns your dna will
dissolve into the ground and no matter
where i look i will see you in everything

The Map is Not the Territory

Seeds #2

Silence. Spice and bitterscents. Setting sun is setting flame toward the sloping thatch, sidling sprawling branches are hairline fractures in the sky. Scattering birds. Hissing and monstrous amplifiers, a cocoon of heat amongst the scattered faces: their features unfocused: rain falls in sudden flickers until skin melts and sockets hollow. Brickwork melts and windows hollow. Roof implodes.

Seeds #1

Awake. A wall of satin sun like net curtains
beneath shabby 80s drapery; orange, not
unlike the sun itself, and both in union
to amber this sit-ting not bed-ding room.
Late summer, its air of lessening density and
evening is still bright in here, as though these

walls
are
too
thin,

and I hear the hifi bellowing next door:
"We'll find us a home / built of packaging
foam / that will be there 'til after we die";
they imply a home of unyielding sanctuary,
whispering as my ear presses uncomfortably
against the rough plaster wall. But this is 1 at
the Green and the wall beneath the window sill
is a sickly brown blooming of damp, and the room
is littered with tacky placemat paintings, sagging
sofa filled with copper coins and Fruit Salad wrappers,
medals discoloured by sentimentality, coronation
cups unused but sun-bleached and even
a cupboard faced with wood-patterened plastic -
it's made of wood. The smell of must and
a skinny warmth haunt every room, bitter
sulphur odour like bonfires lurking in
the stairwell. Open door. Burst. This house fat
with carmine fire, this so-called haven and its
familiarity dis:int:er:gr:a:t:e-

d:-

the windowsill is moving without influence; the
drapery more orange now; shiny bricks and
flourescent mortar mingling within
brightly stuttering affairs;
smell bitter concrete,
orange and orivonj,
all tapehissing roar,
haven an auyvorn
fjuyr n fhuuaer
klayreuune
czystiori
froiprlen
kjjixlq
qxxzzzzzzzxzzzzzzzzzzxxzzzzzz

One Part in a Million

Just for a glimpse

Just for a taste

Just one part in a million

Of what I can see

What I feel in my bones

but not on my skin

What aches within me

What burns without

That which comes so easy, to all, it seems.

I try to convince myself

I try to rationalize

This thing that is formless

But I have found in so many

I tempted myself

I've tied my own noose

But stage fright

and fear of the ordinary

masquerading in the extraordinary

keeps me away

(NO LONGER)

The Non-Exist

Smoke and mirrors. 

He has been an observer and nothing more.

A shadow in a spacesuit. 

Your world is made from paper, you just cant tell.

Fingers bleed when they reach to touch something other than this.

The non-exist.

You can call him what you will. His name may change, but he will always be there.

Even when your paper world turns to ash and saplings sprout for a new beginning.

Whispers echoed into the night.

I point of light revolving in the abyss.

Suspension of Disbelief

Me

Being seen, but not recognised.
Being spoken to, but not spoken with.
Being listened to, but not heard.
Being known, but not acknowledged.
Being part of, but not connected to.
Being swallowed
just not whole.

Autumn

Snaking slowly upwards through valleys of fire
and tunnels of flame.
Distant mist becomes a river which is wiped away wiped away
wiped away
as the wind shatters amber sparks against the grey.
They lie, fallen, waiting for their embers to fade.
Crushed into sodden ash
that smells of spices.

September's Dusk Horizon Never Ends

Loose white sand

collects

in dark hollows

of seashells.

Burned sky

inks her eyes,

changing hazel

to pale green.

Isn't the dune heath

alive tonight?

A fever of heather

and yellow gorse.

Twilight dims:

its growing density

casts darkness

across her body.

Oh to escape

old drudgeries,

our bones by the sea

with bottles of rum.

Our braille skin

peels to ash

and drifts into

sun and undertow.

September's

dusk horizon

never ends.

Vertigo

MusicPlayer

The Muse

The muse does not come
though all is set up, waiting.
The muse does not come
though my pencils are sharpened and my book opened
ready.
The muse does not come
though my desk space is cleared, and I look out over hills
and treetops....
though classical music plays, softly, in the background....
though my days are empty of chores...
though nothing, nobody, demands my attention
the muse does not come.
Bitch.

Soil under her fingernails.

Run,

run,

far away little one

Far from your clothes and store bought desires.

The words come marching

You see them when you sleep

Yet,they are nothing

Not your fingers or your fangs

Run,

run,

far away little one.

Let your cry be a hymn

But a song unhinged

Call to the moon

Feel the echo in your lungs

Run,

run,

far away little one.

While you're young

To the ocean ,

To the night,
Into the undergrowth

Oh, mother with a knife .

Argal Bloom

Prague City Spires / Prague, City of Spiders

On the hill, an orchard:
ripening apple trees and bees burrowing
through spilled fruit, ants gutting
furrows through pips and rotten cores.

From the orchard, a city:
spilled bursts of spires and painted walls
guttering haggardly through trees,
patterning massive chemical diagrams.

In the city, a streetlamp:
haphazard spiderwebs dangle in the crook,
the ripening fruit of flies furrowing but
not bursting its tiny spiral patterns.

Poe, Schopenhauer, Van Gogh.

This mischievous muse, she saunters towards 

Holding aloft a cup overfloweth

It spills unto me,My being transformed 

Then I do see of dreams foretold 

Of mentors and saints 

Of fathers unchained 

Only now do I witness their words come to fire.

Oh I see your fields of yellow 

Oh I see your hollowed halls 

Oh I do see emerald and crimson 

Spiraling down,

Pirouette or parody 

Their eyes are mine 

yet It is their fingers that tap on the keys and grasp for the sable. 

Only it is me, who pens this fable. 

Seachange

Bus 721

Teenage girl.

Screeching on the bus.

She spits rhetoric about fighting other whores.
All for us, all for her mother.

That toothless progenitor picks up a cigarette off the floor.

Looking about to see if any of us had dropped the filthy thing.

She, or perhaps I should say, it, passes that doubly dreaded death to her bleach blond offspring.

How sweet.

My mind spins as I think of the super bugs breeding on the bed of the bus.

I’m sure she’s immune.

God help us, for cockroaches and human scum will be the only things remaining after pandemic and nuclear holocaust.

Mother is a creature to put Bosch to shame. Chin jutting out, concave face, thick glasses set upon a prune nose.

Poor people.

The only thing they seem to do with any success is breed and eat.
This is survival of the fittest gone mad.

These parasites.

They never had a chance.