cream

your caught back, in the very back of some net

that begot all you were too willing to forget,

too many squandered moments of divinity,

were you to have had the key to all religions

resting, nonchalantly in the palm of some bowl,

you would have stubbed it like a cigarette.

There is no truth greater than the truth

that we don't know, there is no rage that

pours out like a thick gas rolling from a beaker.

on top

why do you feign to need guiding by some well meaning hand,

so sad and misleading,

for your heart I thought bleeding,

turned out a misreading,

of a mind that pulls glass from the sand.

boxed

Blend it all into circular nothing, grey

paste to plaster cracks and coat a stone face.

Build up the tower block with a patch of green

solitude, wrung up in its core,

like the pulp left to dry out from a deftly peeled

orange, clinical cuts, jutted out jaws,

and not easily satisfied paws, tearing

at the pours of poor malleable little street toughs.

As you like it.

AS hollow as my life, running from a tracking shot,

caught up in a sinuous mesh, a maze; a no frills mausoleum,

where the coffins are made of wafer and only the privileged few are embalmed,

where you stuff candy into socks and under the bed before some all seeing eye,

count tight your blessings, hold close your dreams, before the second coming.

AS subjected to your wailings, wailing upon my piteous soul;

your pious irreverence, passing through my cynicism with incandescence,

catching me off guard with some glancing blow of sincerity ,

caught up like a mad man, that once found the answers,

but chased them through the spirals of the wind onto unreachable rooftops,

like a ticket stub in a hurricane.

AS you left me, sedate, all wrongs rectified,

unbiasedly, unabashedly in love, with some overwrought emotion,

emboldened by false promises, fearless, proud, and blessed...

Fastidiously unbuttoning a dress, religious, pious, and yet... yes;

all of this cocktail, is savored, by no saviour, no hangman, no. less.

love, bitterly, it must be admitted, is the passion, of adam regressed.

awaken

the reprimanding blow that reminds you,

you are pressed up against a glass pane.

features blurring into a peach canvas,

with your old papers crumpling,

as your new ideas break like waves,

new fruition bending bows.

As the reaper, breaks in half,

and the orchids burst to bloom and laugh,

the fire is crackling, like beetles snapped in half.

pill

your gone, and yet you dart in and out of my head...

like a fish disappearing into a shoal,

like a silver fish, darting into rice,

so that i choke back the vomit in my mouth

yet inevitably i'll forget,

forget, this glint,

this shining sadness,

recoil at the occasional flicker

a haunting that lasts all of a moment,

that full sigh, as a part feigns to die.

you will become no more than table scraps,

or the white mold that grows on a glass,

left beside a chair and forgotten.

or maybe you'll be a phoenix.

and, rupture... shatter... across my path,

dashing bright blood across everything,

passion and impulse and joy,

a dissolving bitter pill,

that fizzes up and drowns,

through the fissure of my skull,

sticks me...

like a fish hook through the eye.

wreck

discord spreads through the avenues, that run around all this fag ash,

a template 4 inches in circumference is blasting out a little white picket fence,

a dog, a cat, and friends at that, all the pipe dream of some sentimental, some mislaid miscreant.

cajoling his friends into cinemas to watch films about reasonable adultery and personable pedophiles, lack luster bluster a blunderbuss aimed at a priest with the convictions of a cardinal,

so ready and willing to sin.

on poesy...

with all of the letters spewing out of me in the wrong order,

and with all of this broken up sentiment gathering like sediment in the bottom of a glass,

there is fire in the fractions but its still just broken glass,

there is nothing that is remembered fully enough to be defined,

there is everything and nothing but it needs to be refined.

i hope

I hope i'm not really grinding to a halt,

running aground on some new shore,

only to find that province is really run down and bleak.

I hope i'm not grounded, rooted, fixed,

by some unspeakable shame,

or all washed up in an oil slick.

I hope that these feelings aren't misguided,

when I tell myself i'm at the brink,

of some brave new salvation.

I hope that i'm finally cleansed,

of all of this tar thats covering my feathers,

that is filling my lungs.

I hope that the days will not grow shorter,

to the point that there is further rationing,

and I hope the end is not in sight.

I hope, beyond hope, before hope and during it,

that at the point that I am no longer my past,

that I realise I've done almost everything right.

little hill

a place of biblical beauty,

diced up

and surrounded by free flowing motor ways,

to catch all the run off

and hide all that beauty away.

what is the faculty of carving out a landslide,

what victory is so sweet that it is worth this great encroachment.

Octopuses Garden

As if to lodge a toothpick in my brain,

as if to climb up and grapple with the feelings that refrain,

that restrain me, such a well trained me, so ill explained me,

a crumbling block of cookie dough, sweet unnecessary nothing,

tumbling from the kitchen slate to be swept and taken out,

by any old clown with a broom, who wants to clear the room,

who wanted you first, who wanted you well early, but not too soon.

I'm here all cut up and in pieces, it just kills me to think of you,

getting all doe eyed over some ignorant nothing, with a smart shirt,

all buttoned to the collar, filled up with the smell of himself,

so organized and confident, yet bitterly bitterly mundane.

sorry

I thought it was pouring out of my eyes,

like led that sets where it falls,

thought it was bleeding from my pours,

as certain as day bleeds into night,

I only sang your praises, I only wished you blessed.

a melody so certain, that it sang straight from my chest.

But the rigmarole, the draining droll,

the production line and the cynical smile,

these things bleed from me too,

I am caught between flood lights,

one of love, one of boredom,

but equally bright, too bright to forget.

Endings.

I saw my life laid out in segments,

a caterpillar dissected,

drawn up into its elements,

a noble experiment.

Each of my worries,

becoming obsolete,

like the blood of dear dead,

being washed and covered,

by sleet.