I emerged from the thicket with leaves in my hands.
They were the colour of dead grass and lions
And crumbled softly.
There was the view from the dreamlands
That I had sown in my mind’s eye,
Threading dull needles.
The cycles of breathing and focus breezed past -
The weightlessness didn’t hurry me
after each eternal second.
The safe place was untouched by the dreary forecast
Just as I had left it. The untidy nest
Of hushed thoughts
Invited my aching self into the comforts of a home
I could never find elsewhere –
Out there.
The best thing was the bed – clouds of foam
Framed by shadow and paced by birdsong.
The décor was unclear
But somewhere near, I heard the spell of a flute
Reeling me from the promise of sleep,
Matching my sigh,
And soon enough, you had left your boots
And your silhouette by the door,
Keeping away the storm.
It is only seconds after you leave that I hear the bells ring
Calling me back to the duff path,
Through the undergrowth.
Another day of feeling the rot of mundane living
As I now settle in the soil and wait for the leaves
To grow.
Apr 19, 2021
Apr 19, 2021 at 7:17 AM UTC
It all feels so unreal
The barrage and war is still the same, old ***** conflict.
And in this quiet moment
All I hear is the empty city and the ringing of my ear -
Nothing more. Release, reform, repose.
I started the new year in a cloud above you all
The gall.
But still fits inside the mould
I can never escape.
I dreamt I was a king
And all the little things
Were condensed in two
Finding me and finding you
Amidst it all, three furry clues
Saw me sinking into the blues.
They tore my limbs down
With those wicked metal teeth
The horror of the amputation’s aftermath hasn’t settled in
The cold keeps me numb, they shaved me to the ground
There go my little dancing curls, goodbye.
I hope this is my time; that I’ll die
I don’t want to know how I’ll turn out
Without those chunks stolen, pieces I grew out
So lovingly, so tenderly,
Now mangled haphazardly into grotesque copies
How will I touch them now, my friends the magpies.
I cannot scream, I cannot cry
My blood will dry
Out
They keep me alive
For what? Their view?
Do they imagine what I go through?
In
But I cannot feel, I’m not alive
Dreams of rat-kings congeal below
They killed us all long ago.
Mar 3, 2019
Mar 3, 2019 at 12:42 PM UTC
I guess it speaks of the love I had
That in those small, tired, sorry moments
I think of what we shared
And I place myself in your arms again.
In that hazy bliss
I imagine other timelines where we would still be together
Hand in hand
Living and loving
And then the moment is gone
Aug 29, 2018
Aug 29, 2018 at 3:26 PM UTC
Turning that new leaf
over and over
like wrinkled paper – so soft
Are those eggs in its underwing?
Minuscule, little dreaming larvae
sunlight spears you
What do you do when it hits the bottom?
face up
A platter for ***** beaks
They wake up and eat
hiding and eating, growing
until you miss that leaf so much
your organs melt
writhing goops of self
you make your own
Later, you’ll turn
briefly
but so spectacularly
Your little dreams will find their deaths
unnoticed little sleeps
while the leaves turn still
May 25, 2018
May 25, 2018 at 8:03 PM UTC
Doesn't it call, so sweetly,
The promise of eternal sleep
of mindless silence
of distant grief
It calls and slithers in deep
Then it calls from within
When the pressure overtakes
That song plays in the back
destitute tunes
of drowsy deaths
That arrive unannounced and lack
Any fault whatsoever
Intrusive thoughts peek through broken minds
a crashed car
a step
off
A laugh so twisted it pains afterthought
Do we live with it? With that choice
Suffering through in silence
May 2, 2018
May 2, 2018 at 6:05 AM UTC
The bulb fizzled out above us –streetlamp
Half-lights painted abstract art instead. We
Lay in bed, half asleep ourselves, in damp
Sheets and heavy limbs, unable to see
The ceiling display unfolding above.
We spent our time asleep, dreaming in sync,
To the beat of your twitching. Is this love?
Because I swear I saw it in the brink
Of now and then, as the little death won:
The heavens opened and the singing spheres
danced wild through your eyes. A trinity spun
into a song that only I could hear.
Stirring, you saw none of that, while the lights
Of the streetlamps hummed softly in the night.
Dec 4, 2017
Dec 4, 2017 at 8:15 PM UTC
Midsummer chill is a call-back.
Struck cold, the bodies congregate in the breeze,
not quite believing the sting of frost
unaccustomed to the weight of clothes, they wait.
when I saw you I was cold
I touched my absent calluses
your beard was rough and my skin brushed red
The trek up the cliff smelled of ash -
the blacked trunks paved the way through the clay
and a moments silence sang of little deaths,
little burnt wings and tails.
you bought a litre of water and gave it to me
but after two swallows I was freezing
you finished the whole thing
In the changeling hour, the domestic rabbit waits
for the world to stop moving, nystagmic eyes wide.
Hearing into the next world, it wonders where
the wailing winds come from, and where they'll go next.
we had met in winter and, frozen in place
didn't see the thaw until it was too late
your eyes were still ice, beckoning
The peak was idyllic green and brook blue.
Winds and sea forgotten they jumped into the pool
shaking the mud away and summoning the summer storms
they prayed for a quick forgiving end.
in a state of half dreaming little death
5.05 AM woke us and clothed us
bugs waved from the shower floors as they drowned
The flatlands had called the unknowing away from sin
only some were left behind in beds of expectation,
of sweat and love
of breath and lust
a taxi found you fast
but your arms found me faster
I was warm the whole way back
Sep 4, 2017
Sep 4, 2017 at 11:55 AM UTC
It was doomed from the start.
Deadlines don't make for happy endings
or happy beginnings, but we made do,
the trickling sands tickling sans cesse
and the seasons passing by and waving
(good practice for tonight, I guess).
You'll be gone tomorrow.
What season would you be, then?
Midwinter spring, as Eliot said
or a Fall chill fighting summer?
One that makes us stay in bed
with the rain at our doorstep.
But seasons come back-
You'll be gone tomorrow.
I'll pray to the god of small moments
for the silences and your hands
for the absentminded kisses
-like that time we floated in a pool
under a cave, surrounded by oranges
and i thought: this is it-
You'll be gone tomorrow.
I did know what was coming
and I've tried to prepare
even though I'd have to stifle tears
when I made my way back home
skirting glances from strangers,
I did try. Will it be enough, I wonder.
You'll be gone tomorrow,
and yet.
Jun 25, 2017
Jun 25, 2017 at 7:09 AM UTC
I hope I’ll think back to those days unchecked:
When we didn’t stray too far from our den
In the Latin Eden, we were ship-wrecked,
In love, or in something unnamed, unpenned
When the cold winds were the perfect excuse
To touch each other, besotted, bemused -
As if we were the first. Lost in your blues
Or grey stares, one with the red duvet, fused.
I hope when spring comes we’ll still be frozen,
Together, despite the thaw. The garden
Overgrows with weed-like worries, swollen
And over-ripe. But I am stranded in
Too deep to feel the pull of dreams of spring.
I would melt for one more chance to be with him.
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 8:13 AM UTC
It was raining –as it is wont to do
in Autumn. Drenched, in search for refuge
I wandered streetlamp lit Madrid with you
with closed umbrellas. We liked the deluge,
and our hands were warming up each other.
The city quiet started to settle
closing in, shivering – so we smothered
ourselves inside, clinging and dishevelled,
the only open café, laughing when
you spilt your tea and then your lips on mine.
We were laughing still when the drunkards spent
our time, hostages drunk with no wine.
It was raining when I left, early dawn
and raining when I saw you, smiling on.
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 6:21 PM UTC