the song of birds measures the air
the buds of the future are fragile
what a fate - not a rhyme:
the eyelids are filled with light

Sad reflections from
donated dreams.
Charity's
fallen embers.
Like a high UV index
they burn right into
your skin.
Freckling
your thoughts with a bit of compromise.

Close your eyes
to the possibility
inertia
has made itself at home.
You'll feel it, feel it
right to the bone.
But you crossed that bridge
long ago.
In the time of
tranquil misgivings.
You gave consent to
sin by offering up
your sons and daughters.
Drowning them
in the shallow end of dissipated water.

Sing hymns
all you like.
Piety
is not for sale.
And the angel light
that hits the wall
is not in the shape of Mary.
Evil always figures into
these things.
Don't you know? Heat rises. Blood falls.

So burn your prayers
on a stick. Roast them
in the campfire. You'll never turn
to God until you lie
dying. Broken and heaving.
Asking for forgiveness.
Which a man of cloth
will grant.
Such a charmed life to leave.

Only it's a cheat.
A spoonful
of circumvention.
Making you feel
warm and clever
as you bleed out. Regrettably,
your vacuous heart
sailed off on the Greta Garbo
and mortgaged
your future for such marquee.
Banking on the
here and now.
From this there can be no redemption.

What if my heart is an open wound for your purposes?
Dissent, darling. Cross not my path. I see you
In every guitar string, tennis net, bicolour flag,
But I don't see you within me. Excuse the lag
In my conscience, and I'll excuse each view anew
Of your face I realise I don't like. Lay the roses
Down for your soul, change the name on the stone
To mine. I closed the doors on my saviour when
His spokesmen told me my chastity was nothing
Even as hers was the holy grail, and snuffing
Out the candle again, I knock on your door, then,
Like delirium is all I know. Like my shirt is undone.

the night is running beside me,
dark limbs tangled in the rhythm—
a pulse, a promise, a threat.

the drums don’t ask for permission.
they pound like a lover’s demand,
like a fist through the ribs,
like a city about to riot.

there is no plan, no end—
just movement,
just the heat of breath against breath,
just the horns, loud and reckless,
kissing the air like they mean to tear it apart.

this is not a song,
it is a fever, a chase,
a lover with wild hands and a knife behind the grin.

there is no stopping now.
we run. we dance. we burn.

MARS:

the shrieking horse
pale as death

in flames,
madness and anguish.

soldiers ride the mare on fire
across dark lakes,
down vast caverns into the fire

flesh and fire tumbling slowly
thundering
thundering
tumbling slowly
spectral light emanating from
wide open eyes, anguish and madness.

then shattered glass, enduring night, and war.

I listen to the
language of the sea
I break down with the
orchestra of waves
there is a storm within
this heart
a kingdom of sand
within these hands
I do not belong here
with the seabirds
and the sailors
I do not belong here
with this congregation
of stones
let it rain I have my
raincoat and my gloves
let it rain I have come
prepared for the storm …
Clay.M