it's always
a blank space inside your skin
public mistakes
nothing to show you how -
that shows that inner workings
can succeed
explain the boxes inches from you,
the photos turned down
inside him
Tell me of single home-cooked meals
of people who let you
think this is a life
All because you ran and called it leaving
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Saturday, 13 December 2008
surmise*
you're arch noir plots
dense, turgid
filled with the ease of
a writing
conducive
to fictions deep and
startling
a prof and a detective
battling each for
some moist control
over the nubile
youngthing
those kisses, girlish
and disarming
a serious love for tender
wounds and stinging
elegies
you'll be
missed like breakfast
skipped, like electro shock
sometimes, at night
I wish I could slip through the
cracks in the floor
experience your soul
* in memory of Dorothy Porter (1954 - 10, December 2008)
dense, turgid
filled with the ease of
a writing
conducive
to fictions deep and
startling
a prof and a detective
battling each for
some moist control
over the nubile
youngthing
those kisses, girlish
and disarming
a serious love for tender
wounds and stinging
elegies
you'll be
missed like breakfast
skipped, like electro shock
sometimes, at night
I wish I could slip through the
cracks in the floor
experience your soul
* in memory of Dorothy Porter (1954 - 10, December 2008)
Rosetta
it isn't cold sundays and
condensation dripping in
found corners - the known room
a moss-topped
bed, chair in ochre.
it's not that the problem's
been slept on -
there are other puzzles to
solve before being
bathed in cat-hair and bought
band-aids (in one too many
shapes) better then, with age
it's not lists of home-wares,
matching glasses, stained
far far up their creased
sides
it isn't scratching armpits
(purring and purr)
less than insistent
well considered silences,
it is weariness and my condolent chatter, the
out-loud way the bereaved go
further into reasoning chaotic and
retrospective, tinkering with the
hours of Monsooned Malabar
and cheap battles over
trail stops at times less ripe
it is the distance and twin
conditioned prodding -
it's knowing and still wanting
in the morning, the day
as foil and bright with the colour
of (you)
it is losing sleep to catch crickets
in hand-baskets, eating cherries
to prove how much
I...
use a word, this hieroglyph
on my tongue and you,
carved and indecipherable
behind pane-glass and out
of touch
but history's been revising and excising
our good times so
it's
gargoyles and dark bills, numbers
and semantic texts - inadequate
friends meddling piece-meal in the
fields we divided, fencing is
the work driven for, pound
in posts (good wood, good wood)
and make a line to cross
that's it, see?
it's ours what's buried
under the turf and walking
sometimes
after the rain
(but not naked) I can take
a creeping sense of your
progression out and away to
our separate hemispheres,
leaving the equator (neutral
blue) and the 51st parallel behind
bookshelves and smiles -
watering the azaleas with liquor
will do for now Green-thumb
condensation dripping in
found corners - the known room
a moss-topped
bed, chair in ochre.
it's not that the problem's
been slept on -
there are other puzzles to
solve before being
bathed in cat-hair and bought
band-aids (in one too many
shapes) better then, with age
it's not lists of home-wares,
matching glasses, stained
far far up their creased
sides
it isn't scratching armpits
(purring and purr)
less than insistent
well considered silences,
it is weariness and my condolent chatter, the
out-loud way the bereaved go
further into reasoning chaotic and
retrospective, tinkering with the
hours of Monsooned Malabar
and cheap battles over
trail stops at times less ripe
it is the distance and twin
conditioned prodding -
it's knowing and still wanting
in the morning, the day
as foil and bright with the colour
of (you)
it is losing sleep to catch crickets
in hand-baskets, eating cherries
to prove how much
I...
use a word, this hieroglyph
on my tongue and you,
carved and indecipherable
behind pane-glass and out
of touch
but history's been revising and excising
our good times so
it's
gargoyles and dark bills, numbers
and semantic texts - inadequate
friends meddling piece-meal in the
fields we divided, fencing is
the work driven for, pound
in posts (good wood, good wood)
and make a line to cross
that's it, see?
it's ours what's buried
under the turf and walking
sometimes
after the rain
(but not naked) I can take
a creeping sense of your
progression out and away to
our separate hemispheres,
leaving the equator (neutral
blue) and the 51st parallel behind
bookshelves and smiles -
watering the azaleas with liquor
will do for now Green-thumb
Thursday, 27 November 2008
teer (after Reginald Shepherd)
the time, over
deep and near
north west, a neat tree
bound for years
in French
wings spread sights
a welcome over-cast
hills and me sitting
naked on damp grass
(it rained in my yesterday)
black frock coats, a situation
I am used to.
a basket filled with a fruit
I can’t make out - nor desire
to
if I build it
will
you?
deep and near
north west, a neat tree
bound for years
in French
wings spread sights
a welcome over-cast
hills and me sitting
naked on damp grass
(it rained in my yesterday)
black frock coats, a situation
I am used to.
a basket filled with a fruit
I can’t make out - nor desire
to
if I build it
will
you?
Wednesday, 26 November 2008
special ones
So rather than being kicked around, I'm going to kick you to the curb
So rather than being pushed around, I'm going to push you away first
So rather than trying to protect you, I'm going to cover my basses first
So rather than trying to open my heart, I'm going to lock it with a key
So that only the special ones, so that only the special ones, can ever get through to me ~ 'Special One' George (Lyrics K. Noonan/N. Stewart)
It's the cynicism of empowerment as fear
'This is about me' a licence to seek
yourself -
a righteous kindness
that I denied you (worn grey scarves aside)
that within us, you excised,
covered over in
acrid thinner, scraped and denuded,
canvas and bone and push-pins -
that you
disappeared into we
So sing hard lyrics and lament notes
no longer hit
I didn't take your voice -
you've not got me to blame (delicious)
but I feel seething
remember, how I see you
there, de-structured, wire-framed
in stark relief, crimson
for what you fear, not who you
delight to be - how you dream you are...
how's the light at the roller-disco?
do 90's school-sport memories
ache up your scattered child-hood,
and its indiscreet confusions
before a time you remembered me with
(she always said it was difficult to be jealous)
others hands - all over, deep
but do not make me feel
I'm the knock at the door
So rather than being pushed around, I'm going to push you away first
So rather than trying to protect you, I'm going to cover my basses first
So rather than trying to open my heart, I'm going to lock it with a key
So that only the special ones, so that only the special ones, can ever get through to me ~ 'Special One' George (Lyrics K. Noonan/N. Stewart)
It's the cynicism of empowerment as fear
'This is about me' a licence to seek
yourself -
a righteous kindness
that I denied you (worn grey scarves aside)
that within us, you excised,
covered over in
acrid thinner, scraped and denuded,
canvas and bone and push-pins -
that you
disappeared into we
So sing hard lyrics and lament notes
no longer hit
I didn't take your voice -
you've not got me to blame (delicious)
but I feel seething
remember, how I see you
there, de-structured, wire-framed
in stark relief, crimson
for what you fear, not who you
delight to be - how you dream you are...
how's the light at the roller-disco?
do 90's school-sport memories
ache up your scattered child-hood,
and its indiscreet confusions
before a time you remembered me with
(she always said it was difficult to be jealous)
others hands - all over, deep
but do not make me feel
I'm the knock at the door
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