Beyond your view of a worthwhile
profitable life, here is mine:
spilling grids of right and light
around the entire globe
night after night
every minute of the day.
Like the witches in world wars
I bleed my earthy soul
transfuse this tragic timeline
try to make it heal.
In the dark, silence is free of you.
Your wretched fallibility
and greed gone viral
cannot touch me in this cloak
though I may yet have to let it fall.
art: susan seddon boulet
it ticks and tocks and counts
every death by abacus
solitude or suicide
noted – ticked and tocked
the unpaid cost of every
a shabby sofa hidden
in the broken stuff
in the yard
on the balcony
unaffected it continues
art: Kurtssingh on DeviantArt
leap of faith
Fear can make out-spaced fools of us all
in a fog, fragile numbers spliced with death.
The thrill of a wild cliff dreaming sunset
and gull cries; adrenaline fires crazy breath.
Yearning swells, a weightlessness on wind
(bets laid with reverence on warm sand)
tips us blindly over summer’s edge into fall.
Tonight, magpies are on one with the starlings.
Dusk is noisy, battered by self-righteous
claims to air. Trees support them all.
Blackbirds scatter thoughts, wild chaotic dreams.
It will be dawn before I’m done with all the hate,
collisions between light and dark shading
into one disgusting mess of crazy bird shit sticking
to my ribs, tongue coated with the startling aftermath.
Waking is a tangled glitch of sheets wound round
and through the echoes of birdsong.
Sometimes it makes sense but mostly I am lost
while robins tug my hair to remember.
*art: Diana Turner
Tears bleed your eyes. It’s a red moon, love,
twisted out of shape. Caught in the dying of a strangled knot’s
cloudy dream of freedom; choice lost. Cemented.
A grave sheds me every day, heavy with adversity, moments
born in wish-tanks full of touch out of touch with reality,
a million dreams away from peace. Starry.
Tears bleed my eyes for both of us. It’s a blood moon,
Love, we’re gasping under concrete. Dreams that don’t make sense
haunt obsessions, make ghosts of habit. Trail drag
to a dead end. Listen for wild birdsong, Love. Forget all this.
my type, feather
light in quiet
on a whim of fancy.
but a song
half formed on a fingertip
dream in a mad breeze
sent, like a road sighing
beautiful and real.
lying low, daylight hangs
there is nothing but nice
chit-chat and the memos
that remember everything
every door slam raised voice barrelled in a fist,
every time you dragged me to the ground,
kissed me on the up-curve of a crippled howling no.
how long ‘til the echoes of your will crushing mine
say no more. say no more of bone or break
or song strangled in brief light. no. don’t touch me.