simple quiet

magpie clatter
vies with
mad skyclutter

contrails twist
suspension
bridging cloud

high thoughts
and sun
where you are

asleep in stars

nothings #9

For a while I was an angel’s confidante. It took time for me to undress names like angel-slut. Peel truth from jealous lie. Choose the side I winged for. I did it though it was forespoken. Like the end.

Now and everynow, I come to you, beloved. I wear nothing.

Now and everynow. I bare only you.

icarese …

Behind a screen, ultraviolet
penetrated only pale exposure,

could not reach her world beyond
dark glass where destruction
retained meaning
and secrets did not spider
across wall or ceiling.
Still, she would not talk of them,

how their brush-tip regularity
repelled sleep, made waking cruel.

Days crawled, rest-less, marked
only by feint sun-blind myths
less brutal than real life.
Beyond shivers no-one penetrated
hers, where love retains shy meaning.
Still, she cannot speak of this.

unnameable …

unnameable read by Shell

in a deliciously strange way this poem was inspired by gingatao’s post on art and passion. you can find it here …

So come on, Lord, give it to me
tempest style, hips ’n’ ravens
flying fast and furious.
I know you like bravado style,
full-on performance art,
flames and magic twirling
wheat ‘n’ chaff all-ways;
still, it took us all to shaft
that one, didn’t it?

Not so easy meat that one,
there are problems with duality
and gifts like that, well,
let’s just say it’s lucky that all
artists crave extinction.
So come on, Lord, give it to me.

What are you thinking now,
right this haloed moment?
Maybe we could do it over latte?

physicalia

this body’s vein-laced
pressure rises, fails
to hold rebellious breath
in protective custody,
snaps vain gravity

this time’s a-conscious
waiting stage in-venting,
you know, all that
done it, scene it stuff

humour’s vital drum
ribs pliant form,
nerveraw thrills intensify

then touch

like

this…

stab in the dark

claw spreads flaw, bound reason’s wide,
considered wisdom’s primal choice
is still to burn, despise her will.

you didn’t understand the “no”
or care “what else” – flicked aside
soft words unheard,
poured acid on “it’s up to her”
displaced your tone with fake-it awe

that Mars has water still but old;
worn out, yes, but dark-age metal
is your way to fire her up.

a possible edit of this poem:

Despising will, blind metal offers
dark-age fire to burn bad earth,
torch my zero, start again.

Soft “no, what else” is put aside;
condescending acid drips
on non-compliance bound and wide.

So what if Mars has water still?
Your fake-it awe suggests he learned
what i will not about your way.