I.

Eclectic birth rage

Lashing at the sun
For speaking too loudly

In those moments

When i find my fingers scraping ice from my eyelids.


Feelings are like lapsing arrows ;
Follow through, with warm blankets and a cup of tea.


Ii.

How
I walk, sundry, towards a bridge in the distance;

It’s hidden by fog, barley perceptible traces of an outline -

Some english village in the snow.

Climbing mountains on all fours.

cobblestones . broken glass in the doors of charity shops;  

I’m so gullible for stories where i live soley in the future.

It’s pathological; the relapse of tense,

Place yourself in the moment
Arden.

For the sake of your spirit.


III.

Apotheiosis is calling me ;
I can hear it talking in
Heaving sonorities.

Black bird dashed against the glass panes
Of my skull.
Crow lies battered on the pavement.


IV.

There is a rush of blood
From time to time, when i remember
The sudden outline

Of energy lived ecsatically;

All these, people - stuck in their tiny boxes,
Paying rent, content with survival mode
And quickly forgetting all the dreams they shared

With their younger selves


I used to
Dream
Of being a poet ; of being in love.

But now I buy food;
I pay rent,

I live to keep walls around me.


V.

I’m scared to break through the muted white
Of rented walls;

It makes me
Sick

To think i’m not chasing something better.

the silk can wait, orpheus,

the suffering is never mindless if it runs deep enough

that when you close your eyes

you can understand time dancing

her long laps in inconsistency.

he

lays his nakedness by the grill of a parked truck

flashing white on the silent highway

  where night suffers

his

own depressions.  

       and the hyacinths will bloom !

oh, will they bloom purple

as the sky   when it nears the desert,

  but for now,

the blood pooling from his head is the solid frost of time, still -

   bouncing light, a sliver of silver to burst the red momentarily.



orpheus, the pounding at your door can wait for a while.

you’ve your own mourning to do.

  do you smell of sweat? does your 4 day stubble itch while the oil soaks your pores ?

  when you lay back on your broken bed, do you smell ***** on the sheets?

a damp on the waist band of your track suit bottoms?

do you thirst, a ***** mug by your head but you’ve not the energy
to walk
5 paces to the bathroom because
  almond flakes stick to your soles
like hungry flies.

hyacinth can wait,

    the sun implores -

throw the blind open and fill your lips
with ice.

stretch,

and be  alive.

Insufferable, black dawn - backlit, by everything, an eclipse to turn the grass dark
the clouds
grey.

Tell me, the numbness I dread - is this it? Because part of me knows the inevitability of death, understands it's the cycle of rebirth
but part of me
calls out with ferocious aches like I'm going to ***** on this **** field
And all I need to know is
why.

I'm sorry - I was an *******, belligerent teenage **** head. Insecure enough
to cut you out completely -

But this exposure is sinking fast,
dim the whites,
render everything to shadow -

I'm clutching at straws, if straws
are a single orange street light
cutting into your profile outline
like a knife ; I'm talking about dean
who I used to replace you

All these men, used to replace you.

Sky, ultramarine - sometimes white if I'm looking forward in time at the dim instagram aesthetic I created on the backbone of a life without you
Moaning at the bottom of the stairs,
waking me up every **** morning (that's why I hated your voice but hell, did I know I needed it)

I'm sitting at the front of your funeral, daddy  - they're praying for me like they Think
I'm not some sick witch
who doesn't need God to be a free man,

some sick impersonal ego-ridden funeral,
I keep forgetting you're dead
and that's been my coping mechanism; these past weeks, moving everything I know from the Strand to Callington -

just ******* forget about it, move on
pretending I'm still that *****
That can walk barefoot and naked through hell and
live,

when you know, Daddy,
I'm an earthquake inside: a sickness sinking in the back of my throat -
eclipse, December sunrise, backlit, oblivion.

I felt
so catatonic that each
  time I prayed
another  tooth would crack apart and shatter
like veneer.

the price
of begging.

boredom, dungeon master with a rigged dice  -

the game I lost because
I am a sucker for punched in cheek bones   with the same
  bliss as a knife

He has eyes, too gaunt to be an angel _
better suited as the damsel
yet
still

leave
me
beaten.

primrose hill, Buckingham palace,
long walk down pall mall
to **** .

I could have sworn you inspired.

Still,
red room violin legacy
for the wish of hearing my dollar-store wisdom
sung back at me,

your lips are as wanton as flies,
intention - mist on the moors,
oblique.
knowing only itself.

I.

The Good Death
    I hear thunder burn and crack against the window panes again tonight,
frightneed by the shapes on my wall
I press my body closer to you -

where are the veins? thumping, still
eternally (as always)

But blood - little sacrifice to a man never afraid,

always naked
always burning
always longing to be a wall and never surrender.

You wear my clothes
   mirror my eyes with silk.

II.

A flash of blonde hair in the darkening hours as the crack
of thunder breaks    against the glass
       “Metaphysical.”

Gabriel  ?
  Something thicker, more permanent.
I see only the shape of your nose cast shadows
against the wall
to swallow the devils fingers
with a smile.

Blonde hair in the sand,
in my sink
broken up by ****** teeth
   and cracked porcelain.

Shaving cream drying on the taps.

III.

The almost platonic revelation that all exists as one
breaks from your lips like water,  

The smell of bleach perforates the boundary between my bathroom and God.

My scalp burns, swelters.

   I realise them as my lips,
for you are simply the shadow
made manifest by forest wire and broken glass

walking barefoot and naked through hell -
I create you.

Come, tell me of how to accompany paradox that
builds us from the ground up

the one and the many
burning bridges in sunlight
to guide us.

Breaking bones in the silence to free us

where You,
    ?
sweet lips of green man  lisping dark winds

this winters past,

  where spring breaks ‘pon the snow

a sun to set its distant rings a cadence of moon

and street light to hear it

glow.

    crow!

hark ye,

cawing the mushroom induced magic we who throw ourselves

at the hallway walls

feel so deeply in our bones
that the void is the summary

of everything.

hark ye,

caw further -

the mirror sees me

spotty  

but they all see my hair shine ‘neath the disco light,

that spings as stevie does
in my dreams.

  and i wonder - slowly, we fall ‘neath the covers of our boat

icons

escaping the dark place

to marxist wonderland -

if i can bathe with her, washing me

and all my clothes -

that moment

stands forever   and the waters she cleans with   is the

froth of stars

galaxy

motion

light eternal.

green man, ‘pon this hour break

we who stand smoking on the balcony and shudder, remembering

the trees miss us
deeper.

Come as you are,
all dressed in silk - head to toe -
baring gifts for the lovers
that have forgotten you.
            
              FEEL:
white cliffs evaporate by the frothy gulf of ocean
where gulls loose themselves
like we do  ...
... except

           LOUDER:
by bus stations, on rail way tracks,
crumbling nights tasting oblivion with drunken kisses,
loosing ourselves to inadequacy
to make ourselves
Human.

            I
can make you human.

I'll wind a spell
in the ocean waves, toss myself to grief if it means making sure
my charm does not surrender.

A chunk of saliva,
***** on the stairwell,
a smashed bottle imprinted on your skull.

            I
can make you human... if you want me too.

Just give me an evening,
a night, dear lover,
and I can make you
                    
                     ignite.