my sickness grows from a love turned sour
my spirit is naked and frost bitten in an arctic wind
snow blind love blind heart blind
my love is selfish
my love is not even tangible
Jesus, what am I talking about?
Am I ranting at the wind again?
as spiders crawl up my legs
like they own me
The rain urinates down from the sky
swollen grey clouds amass like armies
they have the look of two large
scholarly eyebrows crowding into
a frown of disappointment...
Five children sun about in the sun,
searching for their mother
who has fallen asleep in the
back garden with slight sunburn.
They will sneak into the kitchen
and steal three biscuits from the biscuit tin.
Damn! Then the memory of Alex, 16 Years Old: DEAD!
Smashed over an L.A. highway and lying there like
an open wound for every one to see and remember
their own childhood, and all the cars that passed
and all the passengers that looked, would never
know that Alex would be on a life support machine
for one week before it was switched off...
No, they still do not know that and nor should they!
Nor do they know that Alex's parents where Scottish
and that on the day he lay dying on that road
the woman who came to comfort him in his pain
was Scottish...and therefore the last voice he heard
Love is Nostalgia. Love is memory.
Love is your private hidden stupid heart.
Imagine: from 1800 until 2007,
everyone has been nostalgic for the
lost and the lonely and the dead and
the dying. And it is absurd to think of
such things and it is beautiful and it
is those sorts of sensitive thoughts
that build giant monuments and steeples to God!
Rays of sun shine
through the blinds
like swords of light...
in a cynical puppet-show,
where only the strings are real...
from the womb to the tomb in ten
easy steps of sorrow and joy
experience and watch
your mother and father die
and be strong enough for that,
as flowers wither
they nod their heads...
when will the world
quieten to a heart beat...?
when will Mothers
lift up their arms
and Fathers untie
when will the
undress to answer
there are many universes that exist
like this universe: they float
like bubbles in the air
each joined to each...
this here world,
seem beyond false
as crumbs fall and pile on the floor
as the neighbours hammer on the wall
There is not much to say.
There is only a kind of stirring
of the pot, flicking the words about.
Making something out of nothing…
they'll do, they'll live, they fall through!
Then the thought of that
thirty year old woman
from up North
as I seduce the woman
she seduces me
(don't tell her husband)
the heat of the passion was so mad
we just left our minds at the door
and welcomed our bodies into bed.
time cries in the rain
love makes warm lentil soup
memories build houses
eyes scratch out the bad images
the pearls in the shell rust
the diamonds lose their edge
my mind is a sieve
drop like rice.