when you got...
I just couldn't
when you came back
she was no body's wife
one more thing
she sends her regards
time to get -
it was a good run
what can I tell you
my brother
today like no other
I guess that I miss you
I guess I forgive
you stood in the rain
soaked ribs splayed
(I still don't own an umbrella)
if you ever come by here
yes, well
the trouble
as I see it, there for
maybe I learnt when to get out
if you've a memory
of the set we created
that looked like the house
we shared once,
a tapered diorama
like a school urchin's
fruit-box, filled with
hanging packing-tape
planets with hasty rings
swinging and glittered
it wasn't
to scale
just to see if you're better
putting together
your own own again
I hear that you're building
a gin-bottle Babylon,
a kinda record to your
progress, scratchings
of triumph right?
a cigarette now
since you went away
you seem more you
than ever, it's gorgeous, I love it, another cocktail?
another locked park
meet every train at the station
you came home without living
treat me to a
flake of your life
and I'll get you cut out
by fire-men
tickets you don't use
stubbs and suggestions
maybe I learnt when to get out
from you
* after Leonard Cohen
Saturday, 13 June 2009
Friday, 12 June 2009
The Crane Wife
I've lived alone before, and I can do it again
I know you're looking...
How was the premiere?
I can't feel my hands.
I know you're looking...
How was the premiere?
I can't feel my hands.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
it seems this time (3:05 and ripe) that we're not to blame
for a mingled note, a carotid decibel
like a drunk making follow-throughs on whispers,
a spittle homily to disgusted convocations.
heard that he heard about your glamour
and sought the dandy-fine couture of your hand in
slight and ill
how then to think that you, without your plans or
happy days, can't have thought this through...
when in this hour, fixated breathless on a drool-
stained pillow, alternating and aggravating the air-bubble in
my brain (posterior-fossa) - near the part where the cerebellum pokes
out into a spine - and thinking of his thin hands, his thick eyes
pouring and pouring
over you
and why, in this decorum, you didn't care enough to see
the arc of imposition - the fine way you fuck him
and the needles in my nerves that run the length of
the Finchley Rd and down, out to the pebbled sea
and Brighton's lost summers
where, if the fish & chip van doesn't come
we'll serve without
for a mingled note, a carotid decibel
like a drunk making follow-throughs on whispers,
a spittle homily to disgusted convocations.
heard that he heard about your glamour
and sought the dandy-fine couture of your hand in
slight and ill
how then to think that you, without your plans or
happy days, can't have thought this through...
when in this hour, fixated breathless on a drool-
stained pillow, alternating and aggravating the air-bubble in
my brain (posterior-fossa) - near the part where the cerebellum pokes
out into a spine - and thinking of his thin hands, his thick eyes
pouring and pouring
over you
and why, in this decorum, you didn't care enough to see
the arc of imposition - the fine way you fuck him
and the needles in my nerves that run the length of
the Finchley Rd and down, out to the pebbled sea
and Brighton's lost summers
where, if the fish & chip van doesn't come
we'll serve without
Thursday, 4 June 2009
help me bury
He remembers catching lizards in laundry baskets with a mother in a house where the
latches fall off and he is trapped (except for the side window) in the little glory of his room. then Sunday and there is a little
bundle, neat something mewing
sounds like a cat, he thinks, but this cat is pink and it seems to have no hair where there should be hair a strange cat, he thinks but obviously, it will leave.
the cat doesn't leave and instead grows, grows up and out and attached to his mother
all of the day
(and sometimes secretly at night too you see)
so he remembers sneaky one day to push the little thing out the door, roll it down the steps to the drive and down the dark gurgle-hole at the end out to the oysters
and the bay
and he remembers the bat swooping past his mum and her quick, high 'shit' the frizz of her hair then, the arc of the bat and his mother all grown up, pink sweater and
culottes and all and
he thinks there that that little world, his glory, was remarkably large
if you include the dead bats and the pigeons and the rat (half rat really) that time
that riddle the ground of the side-passage you'll have a good idea of the temptation
he remembers finding long and slender white - the knee bone of a hu - horse...horse..
because this acre held a gelding or two in the last rural tipping of the shire into
suburb.
and If you take all Sunday to come back, halfbound wheelchair and all and don't move
again for those three hot weeks, we'll all together drive sombre round - a man-mobile
of strength and worms and dirt and nothing but the tears we're holding back
I'm asking you to walk, again for the time and all, you reached past my face and cross-
snitched an ornamental tree upon my heart, thank you.
latches fall off and he is trapped (except for the side window) in the little glory of his room. then Sunday and there is a little
bundle, neat something mewing
sounds like a cat, he thinks, but this cat is pink and it seems to have no hair where there should be hair a strange cat, he thinks but obviously, it will leave.
the cat doesn't leave and instead grows, grows up and out and attached to his mother
all of the day
(and sometimes secretly at night too you see)
so he remembers sneaky one day to push the little thing out the door, roll it down the steps to the drive and down the dark gurgle-hole at the end out to the oysters
and the bay
and he remembers the bat swooping past his mum and her quick, high 'shit' the frizz of her hair then, the arc of the bat and his mother all grown up, pink sweater and
culottes and all and
he thinks there that that little world, his glory, was remarkably large
if you include the dead bats and the pigeons and the rat (half rat really) that time
that riddle the ground of the side-passage you'll have a good idea of the temptation
he remembers finding long and slender white - the knee bone of a hu - horse...horse..
because this acre held a gelding or two in the last rural tipping of the shire into
suburb.
and If you take all Sunday to come back, halfbound wheelchair and all and don't move
again for those three hot weeks, we'll all together drive sombre round - a man-mobile
of strength and worms and dirt and nothing but the tears we're holding back
I'm asking you to walk, again for the time and all, you reached past my face and cross-
snitched an ornamental tree upon my heart, thank you.
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