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.
you said you’d only let me down
which you did
soon enough i knew better
than to take you back for more
i miss hearing you play guitar
though you can’t sing
the waste of my embrace;
you pretending to be the good guy
I can’t see the moon. Beyond dark tree and thought branching
out into the universe, each busy with itself – She
has locked me out, left me to fend as best I can beneath her
awesome vacant space, lit only by the garden fairylights.
Too busy for my needs, she has a chaos of new stars to teach
about the destiny of planets, constellations, souls and all
the rest that can’t be named outright in word or song,
because everyone, absolutely everyone, is running scared
that everything might well turn out to be nothing but a technicality;
an aberration of the tick-tock let’s invent whatever
seems to be a possibility and worry later if it all goes wrong.
Stars too should know how to fend for themselves, so I accept
the obvious – tonight I’m on my own with the bloody fairylights.
Your touch doesn’t drive me reckless-crazy,
I don’t hear stars pound in your veins
but sometimes you’re a perfect shallow
anchoring my complex depth.
Calm when I am all wild moon and moor
screaming for the lost who spin and cry
like wind-chimes clashing in mad chaos,
you are measured, careful with my breath.
your gentle touch a life-raft
sound in water pounds
deep silent blood – we float
your gentle touch a life raft
rain pounds the placid water
in deep silent blood we float
knife found its way into
guilty skin to paint
one more fine blood line
you still cut your way into art
grieve for the children
hope for nothing
but a door that will not give
at the first fist crush