Friday, January 30, 2009

500 wet tissues in this house alone.

Small is the heart that beats
through blood vessels,
but loud the voice
that calls above the riot

despite the fleeting fly of time
and resignation.

Be alive,

of tender night
in bed with another
flesh and soul.
Love is subtle fingers
grasping at the solidity
of the body

your breathing
beside me
and the windows
like open arms
showing the vast
sky of the future.

Monday, January 26, 2009

Love about all those couples.



-You told of the boy who only understood language if it was sung to him, he didn't last long, and he never found love, no one ever sang to him, lived alone.

-And about the couple who treated each other like flowers and watered and fed each other and trimmed their hair and spoke in bright inspiring ways that are meant to make plants feel.

-the couple that smash glass for the sheer beauty of watching the shards bursting all over the place like a flash of light.

– the couple that play Bach Pavane Beethoven and gargle fresh cool water before they kiss.

– who pick flowers then lay them over the bed and lie on the bed and smell the pollen and become limber and lithe.

-the couple who try to speak while kissing, lost in tongues, always muffled, always open to interpretation, always passionate.

– or the couple who would drink hot chocolate naked and then fall asleep in each others arms.

– or the couple who sat face to face and looked into each others eyes without saying anything for an entire evening.

– or the couple who poured and poured and poured warm water over their bodies and took photos entitled Landscapes.

– or the couple who would each confess carnal hatred and sickest most darkest perversion, divorce then re-marry every night in their minds and make love to music it was claimed could wake up a Nation.

– or the couple who undressed each other then redressed then undressed until the pressure had burst and they fell into bed hot and ravenous for love for hot sweaty bestial love.

- or the billions who fall into bed mundanely , side by side, flatulence their only night time song, snoring and drooling their only resting poems, who woke up and knew it was all about compromise. They kissed sincerely but like franking a business letter.

- or the undercooked lovers of delusion, who knew each other only as parts of themselves, Siamese and definitely dependant, on the surety of another life, prison close in marriage, loving and wild for loving, but ultimately tied up together; in search of light houses or under ground tunnels.

The Perils of Obedience

(Milgram's experiment)

Eight out of ten people
will administer electric
shocks to the point of
fatally killing another
guinea pig human. But
when they walk the street
all they say is 'hello'
in gradients of gloom.

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Dancing in hell.

On the frying pan
We pretend we are dancing
As we lift our burning feet together
Afraid to disclose the pain of our soles.

Friday, January 16, 2009

Umbilical cord


The telephone rings,
I don't answer.
It won't be
the voice of God.
Only another
breather trying
to articulate
important information
regarding practical reality.

I have not slept
for days.
l have no affection
for battles.
I have been poisoned
by ennui. The hair
on my neck grows
like the hair of
a wolf but I'm a hermit
in winter not a wolf.

Those who exist above
the cities and their scaffolding,
live outside the entire game
of spectacular society.
How lucky these
types are like
single roses
on a plateau.
and maybe there are no easy answers.

Only a mountain track
where few dare to climb.

The phone persists,
and each airraid,
knives my sleep.
waiting only for
the mercy
of summer.
Slowly I wake
without ambition
lurch from my bed
pull the phone
from the plug.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Wooden chairs

I've been sitting on this chair for ages.
Simple egg in a cup,
but chairs grow uncomfortable,
unbendable and suddenly
a large duvet with inviting
plump cushions would do.

Wooden chairs do not attend funerals,
but they should, they are stern watchers;
objective, stony men.

Stalwart sitting,
supporting us
laughably upon
their frames.

What does a chair want
with the luxury of
our grief?

Monday, January 05, 2009

To be opened up, read, and discarded.

A letter to myself.

Three pit bulls with razor wire barks scream at me, like starved prisoners, behind an iron fence frothing at the meat of me as I pass. I only want to deliver the post, get through without trial, or some yapper priming for my fingers, gnashing at my heels.

The owner of the dogs is a large building of a man, strong lean, with scar and muscle, a face haggard with rage and alcohol. 'Awright...' He sits with his dogs in his garden, looks at me smiles is content. 'Not bad, some weather we're having. Murder hiking up all these closes, in this heat. Somebody's definitely left the oven on!' I reply while eyeing the dogs and move on.

I strain into the sun walking through its heat into another close. On the second floor there sits in the middle of the stair a bucket kit for smoking hash. I move on up the stairs delivering then I walk back down; a group of five young approach the bucket, begin to stone their minds inhaling large potent lungfuls. I watch their pliable minds, play dough for the drug, sooner or later burning into dust.

Back into the heat, I shift my large post bag, stretch my arms up into the space of the sky, with its weight pulling me down, I close my eyes, moan in prayer to the sun. 'I fucking hate stairs: all 1467 of them.' I'm like a woman in distress carrying a filing cabinet on my back, but the job must be done. It's rational, insanely rational, to post the mail, juggling letters like an idiot clown in a circus prelude to hell.

Monkey’s every last one of us, burning in the sun, sagging in the brain department utterly happy splashing in the dregs of ourselves. I'm roasting. Somebody offers me a bottle of chilled water, and they are a miracle. A non-descript unasked gift of a moment. Thank you, Mrs Anonymous someone. I guzzle the chill down the desert of my camel throat. It is a snow ball of ice to me; I finish it off, rapidly.

I march with my steel toe caps and think of Sisyphus. Carrying his rock like it was the meaning of the thing, or a punishment stubborn and convinced, like a man who has finally grasped something of his own dull recurring suffering. An idiot man sitting inside the workings of a clock, with which he is baffled by.

God. I'm delirious with this labyrinth of steps and stairs, and the turmoil of dark closes, the reek of damp dog hair. The presence of the day. I cannot wait to end this mountain. Only to begin again and again climbing this dragon.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

The Old Boy

My Mum and Dad say I’m an angel,
who must always do his homework.
Clean the dirt from behind my ears.
Listen and never be afraid of honesty.

Once they took my brother and I
to a cliff near the site of the battle
of Bannockburn. We peered over the edge
and Mum said, ’don't go too near the edge.’

The folks says people are just people
at the best of the time and at the worst.
If they lie they think it is worth it.
I don’t think I like people anyway.

I'm sad when alone at night
when the house is frozen quiet,
and no one appears alive it's then
I think of them all alone in memory.

Dad says to never turn the music up
too loud because you can’t hear what
people are saying. But he says I can enjoy
the dress up box and achieve anything if I dare.