nothings #4

Six years ago we smiled and talked anew of hammer drills and trucks, the grand design and beloved demons. Two hundred miles changed everything. It’s weird how I felt nothing when your heart stopped.
How the steady pulse of rain on road still travels through dark hands.

breeze (in curtain)

Dim blur pools to form the shape
of wind this time, spills
weightless shadow on mind’s veil.
Reason’s dogma must
dissolve in space and distant lie.

Otherwise, between perception,
intuition and all things,
you’ll stare at the wall, unmoved.
More still in flesh than
undeveloped photographic

elements discarded, turned away,
frightened of exposure.
We are both pools of shapely
vision, weightless veils
and shadow stones, turning time.

nothings #3

I scribble dreams on sheets; fold them, carefully, around me. It isn’t that they’re fragile. I just want to wear them all, smudge them and wake covered in their ink.

ageing well

Mud turns slow to stone
around heel-heavy imprints,
earthbone’s marked for life
with sunken hieroglyphics,
fossilized at vanish point.

Dreams are signed on skin.
Barely legible, their tracks
are staggered, silly patterns
tripping over crow’s feet
nimble with oblivion.

simple draft

stars’ distant flight doesn’t break
sky silence down

here
thought moves
gentle leaves’
sweet green
tongue-soft

midnight on your breath
moves me to say …

downpour

Solitary grey man dances
with a red umbrella,
feigning freedom outside
Edwards’ wine bar.

Summer dresses cling and
blur through rainy glass.
The scathing edge of rejection’s
glancing blow bleeds
flirtation to a bitter end.

after/words (triolet?)

Afterwards, there is more than silence.
Words pulse in phantom fingertips,
mapping skin-dreams, trailing wild-sense.
Afterwards there is more. Then silence.

Tenderly, thought moves mere absence,
over-arching mind to find eclipse.
Afterwards, there is more-than silence.
Words pulse. In phantom, finger tips.

glimpse

 

Palm-tied to earth I love wings, cruising low so easily to accept golden seed from my fault-lines. Is my heart devoid of altitude, cauterized too often to feel anything but the blasted past of pain? No. Sky-seed’s in all veins. We’re rising beyond monochrome. The birds and I. You?