I have yet to face the mirror
And ask to grow old
So, how should I begin?

Begin wilting into a vintage skin:
Gaunt, creased and thin
Like the last sinking snow
Of a hushed winter.

And what of my hair?
Whiskers that once
Gathered as a forest:
Wild, viscous
And well-nourished
But now snipped
To the skin,

So, should I now begin?

Shall I face the staring mirror
And sing in a whisper;

“Can I yet grow old? Oh,
Let me shrink into the earth
As I exhaust and go bald,
And let me age into a smile
That no longer holds mirth.”,

So, should I offer
My permission?

And throw my voice
Into the reflection
And patiently listen.

Trapped now are we,
Encaged behind the curtains
Like rogue hares traversing
The winding canyons
Of travellers’ dreams,

Hares that beat the dust
Beneath their tired feet
And hares who do not lust
For grass beyond their reach,

Hares beating dust
Into the slits
Of sabbatic sheets,

Dust that sits
And dust that seeps
Into the wilted corpses
Of knackered beasts,

And now, those hares,
They look upon me -
A silence lost
In our final dreams.

I was young,
I was young
And now I do not remember
The fear that was sung;
Anthems of war
And anthems of youth,

Whispers of the guns
And laughter in the shells;
The duty of the young
Pierces our lungs
And sovereignty leaks out.

Oh, what is youth?
What come before the worm
When all that surrounds
Is a castle of dirt
And the stench of empire,

Empire dying
Not in the flame
But in its own dense mould,

And what of pain?
The instant clench of the stomach
As foreign clouds
Pollute our frowning muzzles.

What then of youth?
What then of youth?

It is as fragile
As the blue blooded truth.

Oh Ikelos, thief of my dreams
Steal from me not the night
For I hope of loving schemes
And an all so beauteous sight,

Long have you napped
Under the blanket of the moon,
Until the curtains cracked
Reprising the mournful noon,

So forfeit this draining rise:
An all avenging burden
Upon your somber eyes
That linger amoung the curtain,

Oh, sink into the muse
Of Nyx’s design
So that your waking blues
May surrender, and resign.

The cobbled roads
Are bestowed with toppled leaves,
A verdant dressing upon the lanes
Of old Warfield,

Perhaps a warning
To you and me, not
To follow the estranged lanes
Like the lone tractor
Teasing the outskirts
Of the wooden curtain,

Devil woods that drape  
Over her buried majesty;
The venerable body
Of old Warfield, and

Are you one who rambles?
One who marches
In the bitter spit
Of frozen streams, and
One who claws at the hedges
For famished berries
That wither into dreams,

And are you the one
That I shall take with me?

One who seeks
The bustling labour
Of vanishing bees, and
One who gawps at the larks
Who dive from
The roving rookeries,

No, you are the liberal feather
Flailing in the breeze, and
The one who
Tethers to the curves
Of falling seeds, oh

I should have been woeful Prufrock
Confessing on the fiendish walk
Until I am anchored by the knees.

The cobbled roads
Are bestowed with toppled leaves,
A verdant dressing that lathers the lanes
Of old Warfield, a warning
To you and me, that these
Estranged lanes are fragments
Of a greater majesty;
The venerable body
Of old Warfield, and

Are you one who rambles?
One who marches
In the bitter spit
Of frozen streams, and
One who claws at the hedges
For famished berries
That wither into dreams,

And are you the one
That I shall take with me?

Oh, are you what
He so eloquently spoke of?  
(The song that Eliot sought)

No, you are the liberal feather
Flailing in the breeze, and
The one who
Tethers to the seeds, oh

I should have been woeful Prufrock
Confessing on the fiendish walk
Of old Warfield’s lanes.

Twin doves endure the naked rookeries
Of Whitechapel, a breached stronghold
Tangled in the roots of blurred obituaries,

These birds are forerunners of old
Heartbreak. And the frosty window panes
Conceal the words that have been rolled

Into spears that pierce our seeping pains.
Oh do not speak of her: the solemn widow
Who perches drenched, staring at drains  

Wishing to ride the golden echo
Of a love she forgot to let go.

The trenches are callin’ again, trenches
That run alongside the country roads
Like disgruntled pups trackin’
The stench of desertin’ fowls,

These roads are now scuppered,
Littered with wailin’ canyons
Where rodents linger
To escape the gammy claws
That stir our last supper,

A supper that rudely stiffens
Like the mud upon a boot: brittle
And forgotten, uneven
And absolute,

And what of the smell?
The smell that comes
With the mud upon our boots:
It wafts into the trenches
Lickin’ our cracked irises, and
Stainin’ our grubby suits,

A stingin’ smell that paints
Our stomachs black, and
Sends boys to the dummy Saints
Who are teased at the plaque,

And yet, this abhorrent stench
Is only a pungent memory,
Much more dire stains
Await us over the rim, a rim
Emblazoned with thicket chains
And a bramble corpse, warnin’
The juveniles not to rush
The country walk.

When I breached the gates of Eden,
The gardens did not sing; and
The crows were naught
But labouring -

A thousand charcoal teeth
Chewing at the rot, until
All appeared cold
As the Kings of Camelot,

When I breached the gates of Eden,
The fountain had run dry
And the men were on fire
Laid down by its side, and

A great wave of white lilies
Had devoured the landscape
Leaving naught but the words
Of unguarded graves,

When I breached the gates of Eden,
The mothers pleaded for a song;
“Will you sing, will you sing”,
They begged for me, all night long,

But I do not know how to silence
The howling of the bereaved
For the gates of Eden
Had been deplorably besieged.

Even the pigeons can see the puddles
That surround the crowds
Of the Old Steine
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and washing
Their wings as they go, ignorant
To the faces that
Ache for their homes,

But I do not think
They will look upon me;
Not in the mirrors
That mask the street floors
And not during this purgatory
Of the bus stop storms.

And yet, I look upon them
In hopes they gaze at me
But they never will and
Nor will they mourn
When I am summoned to leave.

FOR YOU ALONE.

For you alone
The crows will prepare a hymn,
An all so blessed coo -
A gentle chime beckoned only to you,
Hear it well
Or hear it not at all,  just know
  It was for you, my
                                        darling  
                                                     you.
Feed the timid birds  
       Upon the garden wall
And remember to smile
As you do, that exalted  
                                       smile
       You give to all,

And when
     The morning chorus
Sees the stars
            And the moon
It is  only because
   I am bereaved
         And  
                Missing you.

The noise of the cavalry was muffled by the rhythm of the crows
Cawing, they bellowed their demands, until silence
Betray the gathered armies, and the men began towing
The foreign rocks, heavy they were, scrapping the last of the lavender
From the earth. Those in protest formed a crust
That lined the crown of the castle walls, there will be no violence

Today, nor tomorrow or the next for the wives have had enough of violence
And the birdsongs have never sounded so bitter, these crows
That perch in the woven branches of the castle woods eat nothing but the crust
From shattered honeypots. Often they screech out in pain, but it is all silence
Lately for they have been soothed by the refugees of lavender
That squat in their nests. But it won’t last, for the men have started towing

Again; great metal ladders in hopes to infect their havens, men towing
Their aggression like a mere pebble in their pockets. They are cemented in violence
Like the calf to the ******, and the wife who lathers the scent of lavender
Into her hair. But not all things are so natural and sweet. The crows
Have had their heritage destroyed, they no longer follow the universe, silence
Has become permanence, just like how their rookeries have formed the crust

Upon their enemy’s world. So damp and hollow their homes have become like a crust
Of saliva upon the bathroom sink, alas there is no time to repair, for the men are towing
Again; rocks, ladders and now fallen oaks - dragging earth up as they trudge. There is silence
Before the breach, a moment of purgatory before the deafening violence
Ensues. There are no caws from the guarded rookeries, the crows
Have decided to sleep through revolution, huddled among their lavender

That will soon be found in the knotted hair of widows, the stench of lavender
Shall waft through the winds of grief, as the priest gives counsel to the fresh crust
Of tears found under the eyes of thousands. It is over now and the crows
Have come to pay their respects, they caw at the men who are towing
The tombstones of lives that never blossomed, each one reads: “there will be no more violence
Today, nor tomorrow or the next.”. And life shall proceed only with silence.

For awhile it may all persist, silence
Is king and the woods that hug the castle walls are growing lavender
Again. The treaty is kept and the cloak of violence
Is hung up neatly next to the crown, waiting for the crust
Of peace to be vanquished. It is the wives now who spend their days towing
The labour of the land; weaving seeds and chatting to the crows.

Alas, it does not take long for violence to mature, and for the silence
To pitter off. The crows have buried themselves, taking all the lavender
With them. The men are towing again and all that is left is a broken crust.

Gone are the merciful gallows, and gone
Are the deep cuts of wayward shadows
That accompanied the aftermath
Of a day’s work,
Now all the crass fellows
Are in the dirt, perhaps hollow
And departed from their history, but before
There were those who waited, mourning
Their blind innocence in the stalls
Where men of misery would whisper
Through the scabs on their lips
Calling out to one another, “you ****** fools!”.

Here, they spoke of the ‘thirteen steps’
And the ‘one life’ that regressed, told so
To humble each and everyone
Of their grossly enamoured necks,

Such precision could never be ******.
No, “it is justice” says the man
Who smugly wields the golden hammer
And those rodents
Who demonstrate the title; ‘lucky-lurker’,

And when the rope is snipped
The mortality of men shall drip, like
An untethered shower head
Perpetually tugging with the clean hand
And the only farewells that shall be said;
“Mother Justice, he is dead”.

Look upon the Royal Gardens
And see how the trees are aged
And starving, I have seen
Their bark shiver
And crack, I have seen
Their roots go rotten
And black, and in the frozen air
Flakes of wooden shrapnel
Drunkenly dance to the rhythm
Of the thrush’s melody, but
Even the birdsong has wilted
In the dull revelry
Of the tree’s passing, for

The holly bushes are few
And their berries no longer
Blossom from the flower, the
Thrush’s dinner is due but
The elm’s nectar has gone thick
And sour, and  

Where should the royal swans rest
If not upon
The shrunken coasts of ponds
That seem more like puddles
And by rivers that have gone still
And narrow
Making the water appear dead
And shallow, where then

Should they go
If only Hell is available ?

Beyond the marble cliffs
Sits a stone-weaved shore
Where seals often gathered
For noonday naps, drenched  
In the throbbing spirit
of the Sun,

Now the days are done
In much shorter fragments
And the tides hug the beaches
With firmer grips, passerbys
Fail to capture a glimpse
Of the great burning effigy
That rides the sky, rather
They must settle for
It’s lunar reflection: the
Divine orchestrator of our
Island’s waters -  

The unsettled Moon
Is sulking again, I keep
Telling the Morris Men
That it’s unkind to
Only dance for the Sun
But they do not listen;

They smack their sticks
And paint their faces
Shouting songs of
Erased archaic motives,

Whilst I am left
All alone to console
The burly ball
Of gleaming rock, and
The more tears I wipe
The quicker I realise
What an impossible task
It all really is.

The downpour will retire soon
and I will be able to cross
  the rivers again
and gallop along
  the muddy sheets of grass, where
did I leave the picnic blanket ? (is this even
  the same land ?)

the owls seem different;
less intuitive
and  more mechanical.

And the elderly man (who raked in  
the hay)
has been sacked, I
hope his daughters
  will cope .


The hills are more frigid,  they
all end with jagged points
and the badger nests
have been raided .

Where did
it all go?  the mirth
before the  rainfall.

Winter arrived on Tuesday,
She blew upon my door
And delivered a new batch
Of the flu: fit with
Waterfall nostrils, blocked
Up thoughts and
A bag of half-licked lemon
Flavoured strepsils.

I couldn’t believe my luck
When I found a sache
Of nausea too!

All-knowing am I
Of the privilege that comes
With being a son, entangled
In his Mother’s love,

And that, (He wishes
You to know)

Is more than enough.

This morning I dug up John Lennon’s grave,
I needed to tell him a bunch of people from the internet were outraged
And demanded an apology,

Squint-eyed, he chuckled
And asked me if i’d ever listened to ‘Jealous Guy’, and
Then proceeded to tell me to ‘*******’
Without even hearing my reply,

Given who I was talking to, I obliged
And walked away untangling my earphones,
After awhile I located
The song he recommended and
Pressed the play button as soon as it had downloaded,

It was an odd feeling jamming my thumb into John Lennon’s face
Just to hear his music, you see
The play button was perfectly placed
On the bridge of his nose
Just under the iconic silver wiring of his round glasses.

4 minutes and 18 seconds passes
And i'm left thinking;

‘He hasn’t a grave, he was cremated
But at least I found the apology
The people on the internet wanted’.

When the light has come
And dispersed
To another crack in the universe;
Somewhere shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils;

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And devoured by dwindling creases
In bone-white cheeks,

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, crawling
My way through the sleeping bodies
And smokey brick retreats, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Half-bloated, half-empty stomachs,

I shall ignore all this, and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures may linger
Of children grasping red balloons
And of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons,

Their imperial chatter of “wake up!
Wake up!” reminds me of my choices,
The choice to wear knitted coats
And button-up sleeves, perhaps
If I wear a hat, the voices shall cease ?

And when I am asked why I stand here,
Balancing on the curb in my puzzled clothes -
I shall profess;

“I am uncrowned but I am dressed, and
They have banished me to the ground, do
They want me to ask their questions now
Or shall we tuck ourselves in and go to bed
Where all that can be said,  

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

The crowds will reply
In their final utterings
And frayed mutterings;

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you pace upon
The edge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay too -

Here, my wings are clipped and
My smile is cracked, but
I am not yet dead, it is only my
Hands that appear to bleed
This deceased shade of red,

Here are my belongings:
The rumours that are soaked
And promised - the words
That are often misread
But never misspoke,

And with my tongue dipped in the gutter -  
I natter and I mutter;

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates have closed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be said,

‘Am I dead ?
I fear that I am dead.’ ”

But I am not yet dead, my
Pulse still breaths see, it
Marches on without cowardice, it
Rallies my heartbeat
And commands my legs to charge -
  
Down, down, down the crevices
And the isolated paths, the
Uncharted cracks
And the unironed creases
Where ill bachelors linger
And their estranged daughters
Snigger; “my daddy is
Dying, look at him quiver
And squirm, doesn’t he
Remind you of the worm!”,

I do hope they ignore me, if
Only they knew
How fragile I have become
They would bombard me
With lethal profanities,  
Anchoring my ears
To their vile screech, and
I speak, and on I speak;

“Be kind to the gentle man,
Let him speak to the birds
If it pleases him,

Buy him a loaf of fresh bread
So that he may feed them, and
Listen to what he has said;

‘Am I dead ?
Indeed, I am dead.”

There will be no obituary
In the Sunday paper, nor
Any grieving stones
In the Vicar’s lawn, and
No bereavement cake
On the Baker’s counter,

(Oh, however will they mourn ?)

There will be no joy left
To cure the funeral blues
And no pick-me-ups
In the mornings after news,

There will be no murmurs
From the Sisters
And no whispers
That slither through
The cracks in the doors,
There will be no answers
Of any sorts, there
Will be no answers at all,

Everything is trivial now,
All null and dispersed
And the light
That was diminished
Has up and fled
To a vacant universe,
Where all that can be said;

“Am I dead ?
Is this what it is to be dead ?.”

When our light has come
And dispersed
To another crack in the universe;
Somewhere shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils;

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And devoured by dwindling creases
In bone-white cheeks,

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, crawling
My way through the sleeping bodies
And smokey brick retreats, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Bloated but empty stomachs,

I shall ignore all this, and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures may linger
Of children grasping red balloons
And of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons,

For this is their retreat, the voices
Of “wake up, wake up” are tired now
And have little reason to compete,

And when I am asked why I stand here,
Waiting on the curb in my damaged demeanor -
I shall say;

“I am unmoored and I am uncrowned,
I have fallen from the cracked marble cliffs
And I have been banished to the ground, do
They want me to ask their questions now
Or shall we tuck ourselves in and go to bed -  

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

And the crowds will reply
In their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings;

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you pace upon
The edge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay too -

My wings are clipped and
My smile is cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands appear to bleed red,
Guilty hands that forget
To tow the line
And knead the bread,

Now I sit dipped in the gutter
And I natter and I mutter;

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are closed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be said,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create,  
The words that I bleed
And paint
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.

Buskers line the lanes of Dublin
Mirroring the beer taps in the city pubs,
One by one the tourists bustle in
Like grains of rice flowing into cups,

There is a ****** out on these streets
And the marching Garda are in pursuit,
Muffling the young kestrel’s tweets
And the boys who wear butcher suits,

Bodies line the lanes of Dublin,
Cutthroat lanes brushed with blood
Where the brownnoses come rushing in -  
The watershed has burst from the flood,

For, death is sown into these streets
And life has turned quaint in defeat.

She dances in the dark spots
Between the street lights, like
A patient drunkenly twitching
Before an operation,  

There is but a lick of anxiety
In her performance, deprived
Is she by her cruel audience, but
To their defence
They are merely the empty foliage
That sit on each side of the city lane,
Like shadowed guards
Who gleefully imprison her in chains,

Where will she go
After the moon retires and
The trees offer her the key ?

Perhaps, she will follow the stray cat
Down the dimly painted alley, will
She give in to the ***** feline, who  
Beckons her with a fickle whine
And who stares obtusely
With such precise baby-doll eyes,

Or will she simply sink
Into the leaf smothered ground,
Face anchored and stitched
To the pavement, her beauty
Famished and her heart envious
Of the four-pawed beast
Who now dances on her corpse.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my cranium, and
A fleeting wave of sloth drenched my appetite,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, was
It a gift from a platonic friend -

Loosely it sat, half-worn upon my shoulder
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
Pride took sovereign, covering up the rest,

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, an anchor
Upon my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was all too eager
To confront the temptress in my pocket,

Which hand will volunteer, the right
Or the left - a modest nudge should do the trick,
Oh what is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides away
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I do not concede shame, perhaps

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe then my worries will drift off,
Like an ebb and flow temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of serrated seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas, it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it has become
Unbreakable, and I am certain
It shall never untether from my home,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine revisit, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

Departing from one mechanised coastline
Only to be summoned to my own, I left before
The others had even thought of breakfast, and

On the train, cumulonimbus clouds wedged
Their way into my skull, and
A fickle layer of arthritis glassed over my skin,

For two hours I was an old man, wrapped
In a red jacket that didn’t belong to me, perhaps
It was a gift from a platonic friend,

It loosely sat, half-worn upon my shoulders
Until my body reclaimed its youth, and
My pride decided to cover up the rest,  

That's when I felt it; a slight jab,
A tiny nudge, a brief discomfort, a weight
On my existence, an entity in my jacket pocket,

A tourist squats inside my clothes, clothes
Which I myself hadn’t yet explored, was
I just as unknown to this all - despite

All this, despite the uneasy riddle
Spewing from my chest, I was half-ready
To confront this temptress in my pocket,

Which hand would volunteer, the right
Or the left - or perhaps
I shall attack the outer fabric with a hearty press,

The latter is what I shall do, a tiny
Nudge back should do the trick, oh
What is it, what is it that lies in my pocket,

A hardened form of ambiguity, tucked
Away into the corner of the fabric, like
A faceless beast retreating into its den,

What is it, what is it that hides
In my pocket - a shell, a quaint cream shell
No bigger than my thumb,

What a fool I was, stunned
By a fragment of seaside propaganda, and
Yet I am not ashamed, maybe

I was justified to fear this shell, should
I crush it - maybe my worries will drift away,
Like the tide temporarily retiring,

Will my hands suffice - should I use
My left or my right - which
One can break the skin - my left

Hand answers, and small splinters
Of seashell scatter in my palm, it
Is only a chip, alas it is only a chip,

Now that I have struck, it feels
Unbreakable, and I am certain it shall
Now permanently reside in my pocket,

Stubborn and unchanged, haunting
The inner lining of my clothes, dampening
The fragility of what lies beneath, when

Will the sunshine return, the warmth
I felt when I first put on this jacket - it’s
All frozen now, starting with the sea.

When the kettle
Has finished and boiled
And the Sunday eggs
Have been spoiled,

When the man who begs
Dissolves into the street
And the magpies
Squeak their last tweet,

Will they still need me
And will they still see me?

When the young boys  
Have been found dead  
And the obituaries
Have been read,

When all the red berries
Have sunk and wilted
And the groom
Has succumbed and jilted,

Will I find the end
And will I be whole again ?

Nowadays I find myself
In a landscape dominated
By farmer’s fields, they
Stretch from the country lanes
To the looming walls of oak
Where candidly they sit side-by-side,
All neatly laid out;

Eager for my foreign feet
To parade about, and
To dent the ground
In heavy, deep bruises
That one day
Will be overflowed by rainfall
Or, perhaps, dug further
By another stranger’s affection.

I am anchored to these fields
Of farmers who all look the same
And perhaps they are the same, all
Pushing for bigger harvests
And meatier offsprings, they
All follow the seasons
Like a blind man with his hand
Strapped to a gear stick, they
Are slaves to nature, and yet
I have not seen them comfort a tree
Or kiss their fields in which
They hope to nurture and reap.

But they are not to blame, no
They are not to blame,  

It is my unmoored conscious
That pollutes the soil
And whispers to the birds
And the unmoved snails,

“Go home now
And burrow away, please
Discard all your love
At the hollowed out trunk
On your way out”,

It’s not my fault
They only have
Fallen branches
Mixed with
Dried out leaves
To conceal all this
Unwanted tenderness
And grief, it’s
Not my fault they
Aren’t loved by
The farmers anymore,

So, why do I let them
Ruin my country walk ?

Why do I find myself
Chatting to the berries
That smother my shoes
When I show them
No remorse ?

I should really ask
The farmers what they
Think of all the ******, but
I do not think they shall
Let me walk on their
Fields again, I shall be
Barred from the
Country lanes and
From the homes
Of all my friends, my
Footprints shall be
Covered over
In sheets of ****** grass
And newly-budded flowers
So that my crimes
Are forgotten and masked.

I have stolen from men
And I have stolen
From God; pawns,
Bishops and
Chess boards, bits
And bobs
That escaped creation
But I suspect it is all
Mostly fraud, or
At the very least
Just mundane and
Flawed,  

Alas, I shall stash it
Without a sound, but
Where do I hide my hoard
If those who come snatching
Aren't far off,

Where do I repent
For my crimes, and where
Does this robber of time
Find himself when the day
Has come to an end
And there
Are no more locks to pick,

When the candles
That keep the rooms lit
Devour themselves
And the night
Comes crawling in,

When the crows retire
Their thieving beaks
And refuse to sing,

Where
Does forgiveness lurk
In this great mess, is
There a church
Behind the curtain
Or has the robber
Laid a curse
Upon that too,

And tell me, does
The devil wear smiles
And glee
When she visits
To ask for the lock
But not the key, or
Is it you
Who visits her
To pay up what is
Long overdue,

When will it all end,
The thieving
And the pleading, the
Hapless exchange
Of leaking plans
From uncut hands,

No one now is listening
And all the ears are closed
To the ******* hands
That touch
Strangers’ hearts
Without a sound,

And now I presume
To ask; when
Can I steal the ark
And watch
As my guilt struggles
And drowns.

The light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in the universe; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with a docile smile
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children
Grasping red balloons
Or of husbands
Washing up famished teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But they are so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand here, waiting, on the curb
In my damaged demeanor
I shall say,

“I am crowned Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the clouded glory, and now
Tasked to seek a question, a
Time-weathered question”.

And the crowds
Will reply in their frayed utterings
And silver-laced mutterings,

“We do not know
The queries you seek, or
Why you stand
Upon the ledge of the street, alas
We do not know what it is
You seek at all”.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will have to do, it is where
I have made my bed
And where I shall lay
With my wings clipped and
Smile cracked, but
I am not yet dead, only my
Hands which sit dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -

“Where does the Morningstar go
When the gates are sealed
And the couples have gone to bed
And all that can be heard,

‘Am I dead,
Am I not yet dead ?’ ”

These words that I muster
And create (these words
That I bleed and paint)
Take on the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they let out a snigger
And a slither, intertwined
And brittle, my
Voice passes on
Thinner than before.

When the light has dispersed
And migrated
To another crack in existence; somewhere
Shut off from those
Who are so acutely delirious, a place
Where you can mingle with docile smiles
And weary half-shut pupils.

Somewhere shrouded in half-cut peace
And dwindling creases in bone-white cheeks.

When the light
Has found this place
I shall roam the foreign streets, ducking
My way through the brick retreats
And sleeping bodies, squeezing
Through huddles of gristly hands
That sit upon embers and
Empty stomachs.

I shall
Ignore all this and rather
Look upon the sides of buildings
Where pictures can linger
Of children grasping red balloons
Or of men washing up teaspoons, my
Eyes are welcomed by these sights
For they are dull
But so very kind.

And, when I am asked
Why I stand, waiting, on the curb
I shall say,

“I am Lucifer, fallen
From the edge of envy, shut
Out from the pearl clouds and
Tasked to seek a time weathered  
Question”.

I do not think
They shall believe me
When I try to tell them
And I do not think
They shall understand.

And so,
The brick and concrete
Will do, it is where
I have made my bed,
I shall lay
Wings clipped and
Smile cracked, hands dipped
In the gutter, and I natter
And I mutter -
These words that I muster
And create
Take the form
Of a twin-headed snake
And they snigger and
They slither, intertwined
And brittle
They pass on thinner
Than before.

Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall mimic
The winged coal, and pick
Deeper at the ground, do
They seek food ? Or is it
Purely to play their role ?

They do not nest
In burrows in the earth, nor
In homes made of dirt, but
They have found their place
In the somber alleys
Of some wrinkled face.

Today is a crow day, a day
To wear a beaked mask
Of prestige, to uphold
My place as a distant link
In the chain, a lonely son
Of shadows and liberty.

I have become fond
Of their mischief, the way
They coo on repeat
At passing dogs and other
Furry things, I think
They only wish to be seen.

Today is a crow day, a day
Where I shall yearn for the wind
And some sharp change
In the weather, I hope for clouds
To conceal my dull eyes
And my betrayed wings.

I have never seen them
Lose their obsidian gleam, are
They careful with their coats
Or is it luck ? Or perhaps
They are the directors
Of all things lost.

Today is a crow day, a day
To stare with guilt
And envy, a day to peck
At redundant trinkets
That lay abandoned
On half-built bridges.

Alas, I do not know much
About the crow, but I have
Noticed when they linger
And when they go, when
They tire and
When they cease.

Today is a crow day, a day
To be whisked into
All the chaos and glee
That persits
Through echoed existence
As this feathered fiend.

Lately i’ve been enjoying the eastside
Of the beach, to the left of the pier,
A mile or two down
Where the people are sparse and
The stones seem plentier, it’s
All so much prettier there.

Dotted about
The seagulls are at rest, cooped up
Into a nest of equilibrium
Between earth and sea, I
Have found myself mimicking
These coastal fiends, as I too perch
Onto the world and wait
But unlike these natives I do not
Know what I wait for.

The sound of authenticity
Hurries along the downtime,
Of late Lennon has found
Himself in my ear
But I do not think he knows
Why he arrived here, and
I do not think I have the
Means to tell him.

This place where I sit, this
Man-made beast wedged
Between two crowds
Of pebbles and weeds, this
Place is where i’ve found
Resonance with time
And all her happenings,
Where I go to watch the
World function as she should.

Middle aged men find
Themselves stripped down and
Engrossed in the cold waters, I
Am in awe of the freedom
They exhibit and
I wonder if they know
Their limits ? There
Is beauty in their playfulness,
For a brief moment
They revert to innocence,
I do not think they came
To impress me but alas
They make me laugh,
Something even the waves
Have failed in recently.

And in these waves,
Waves on the brink of winter
That foam the edges
Of my shoes and spit
Salt and purity at my face,
These waves carry
The sound of a girl
Who cried wolf, I fear
This is only my reflection,
Fragmented between
The ripples, alas
The sea does not stop
For me to ask questions.

Time dances along, maybe it
Is her I see in the ebb and flow
Of the emerging tide ? Or maybe
She lingers in the man
Who owns the red kayak, he’s
Only a few metres from where I sit
But his mind is far off, I wonder
Where he wishes he could be, I
Do not think it is France, for that
Place is much too far, and
I do not wish him to stay in his
Kayak for much longer, but
That does not seem to be
An option.

And the girl will cry wolf, perhaps
This fact of life is why
I find myself glued to
The beach on the eastside and
Not with the free minds
To the right of the pier, perhaps
This is why I grow older
With each visit and why
The middle aged men
Have found their
Youth again.

Summer spent her last breath today,
A breath that still lingers on across the hills,
Filling spaces in between the bushes
That run parallel to the rambler’s routes,
She paints a shallow layer of verdant, kissing
Her mark upon the cheeks of the land,
An annual goodbye before she disembarks.

Autumn speaks, his spit fires off and pushes out
The thin remnants of Summer’s song, the colour
Turns flat, greens become murky, and
The shimmering glare that filtered the leaves
Now turns dull, paving the way
For yellow and rust, and joyless lungs.

Winter drowns all in glitter and white flame,
Burning the remnants of Autumn’s change,
She brings comforting dreams
To the sleeping fauna and staples
The grey flora into the tundra-like soil,
She shrinks the trees, the hills
And the grass
But alas she never lasts.

Spring comes quietly, a drastic change
But she is never boastful of the life
She brings, the blessed births
And the reformed prisoners, she
Breaks the chains of Winter, defrosting
The world and allowing colour
To return; the world is now emerald
And shall remain this way
For ninety days or so.

How do I play with this
Devil-dealt hand. When
Each card ignites at the touch,
Now my hands have become callous
And rough
But still they are clean, indeed
They are clean. I
Do not care to mend them
But I admit
I worry who shall
Comfort them, if they shall
Receive comfort at all.

How then, do I proceed
Through hell, through
This brittle landscape
Forged from badluck
And prescribed
Mistakes.

Perhaps, I shall laugh
As Dante does and
Perhaps, I shall dance
As time has done.

How do I play with this
Devil-dealt hand. When
Each card ignites at the touch,
My hands have become callous
And rough
But still they are clean, indeed
They are clean. I do not care
To mend them but I admit
I worry who shall
Comfort them, if they shall
Receive comfort at all.

How then, do I proceed
Through hell, through
This brittle landscape
Forged from badluck
And prescribed
Mistakes.

Perhaps, I shall
Laugh as Dante did
When he painted
That world.

When did the music
Become so bleak and dreary,
I do not recall letting chaos
Play the night’s chords,
And I do not think
My ears have grown weary, so
Why then
Has the music taken
The form of tired melody, why
Then has it terraformed
Into a tilted maze
Where notes carry
Shame
And it all beckons the
Same, can it no longer
Cure me ? Can
It no longer translate
My murky puddle of
Thoughts ? Oh, whatever
Happened to the music
That Dante sought, did
It forget what
Brought joy
And what bred love ? I
Now only hear struggle
In the siren’s voice, did
It lose sight of the coast -
Is it left, now, with
Nowhere pleasant to go ? Or
Perhaps it is me
That struggles to see
The genius. Alas, I
Do not hear the Sun in
This song of yours,
And I confess I am
Afraid of the sound
That shares my bed,
I do not think I shall
Sleep tonight, I do
Not think I shall
Sleep at all.

Tomorrow I shall go to the beach
And begin to throw each stone,
Pebble and rock back
Into the sea,

But I shall deprive the lonely conch
And the bundles of seaweed,
They shall stay on this
Stoneless coast,

And I shall sweep the snow
Back into the clouds and
Cut the mountains
Down into the ground,

I shall unsow the forests and
Consume the leftover seeds
And perhaps if you let me, I
Will persuade the bees
To disperse,

I shall do all this,
All this ******, out
Of fear
Of the universe.

Am I heard ?
Am I heard ?

The end of the street seemed so far away,
Perhaps it was the faulty light, flickering
And highlighting the absence of tourists,
No one walked this way, not since the baker
Moved two streets over, but the smell-
The smell of bagels drowning in honey,
The smell of butter
Cuddling up to warm bread,
These smells had not yet
Escaped the concrete slabs
And brick walls,
And maybe that was enough
To still linger,
A faint whiff of pleasantry
To persuade the day to go on
Ever quicker.

On Cabbage Mound the birds tweet gold,
So says the porridge eating man,
The spontaneous trek up that grassy reserve
(To see the flocks and frolics of finches conversing)
It’s a matter of season he said,
In joyous spring they produce song of glitter, but
Catch them under the wave of a solemn winter
And you shall only hear a dull twitter.

Often he leaves bowls of porridge upon that place,
Abandoned to absorb the view,
Wilting amoungst the bush and flora,
Like a planted trap for the lurking fauna,
Their ceramic bodies sit unnoticed and unaware,
Soaking in the sunrises and
Mourning the day’s ending
When the sun crawls under the horizon.

Early dawn conversations leak
From the finches’ rookeries,
Where they dwell cooped up
Amoungst feather and trinket,
Their endless nattering awakens the sun,
Coercing it to rise, and
Bleaching the ground in tints of orange.

A breakfast awaits them
Outside their homes
Of woven branches and loose fur;
Berries and scattered delicacies
(From the Sunday morning ramblers),
And perhaps a touch of porridge too.
They bury their beaks into the thick pools
Of weathered oatmeal,
And perpetually pick at plastic wrappings
Until their brandished beaks begin to go blunt and sore,
A monotonous task even for an eager flock,
But they never end their labour without reward.

After breakfast,
The porridge eating man
(With porridge in hand) arrives,
He approaches with a staggered limp,
Perhaps a scar from some late night disagreement,
He approaches holding his lower left limb,
The finches have come to learn his routine.

First he stops (whether to take in the view
Or to rest from the trudge up Cabbage Mound,
The birds have not yet asked),
Second he takes out a package
From his right pocket,
He undresses the wrapping
And produces a small pad of paper,
A pen follows, signifying
The start of settled concentration:
Strings of ink,
Intertwining lines and shapes,
Letters touching letters,
Forming meaning and breeding words,
A sharp coo startles the man,
Breaking his focus, and anchoring
Him back to sobriety,
Finally he disembarks from Cabbage Mound,
Turning his back to feathered insight
And slowly sinking behind the hill,
A bowl of porridge takes his place,
And so, it shall stay
Until the finches start to natter
And their hunger begins to ache.

I have chosen where I shall lay,
By the edge of the stage
Just before the actors and
The ropes that draw the curtains,
I shall sit here
Watching audiences
And making tallies
At the pass of each scene
And at the moments
Where I see
Through the performance
But I shall not applaud
And I do not hope to be seen,

On occasion I may smirk
Or cringe
At the nanny and the kids
Who line the front row, like
A single hair upon a chin
But nonetheless they sit
Strapped in
Eager to watch, but  
I fear they focus on the rot
That lays hunched
And gaunt, like a plague,
Oh, whatever happened
To the man
At the edge of the stage ?

(And they will say,
You are a stalk without a flower)

A Spring without Easter,
Where eggs are never cracked
And the rabbits stay buried
In overgrown mounds, perhaps
The green grass forgot to wake up?

(And they will say,
You are a candle without a wick)

A crowded room unlit,
Where mirth is spread
But smiles can’t be seen,
Where joy is masked
And yet, is it not bliss?

(And they will say,
You are a river without a mouth)

Dry words converge only in lies,
Stories are poured
And ears **** in the vapour
That fills the damp world,
But do I not see tears?

Even the pigeons can see the puddles
But i’m not sure they can see the rain
And I do not think they will look at me,

They hop across the swamp-filled curbs,
Dipping talons, and scraping wings as they go
And maybe they will dare to disturb
The still liquid reflections,

But I do not think they will look at me,
Not in the mirrors on the street floors
And not during the purgatory
Of waiting out the bus stop storms,

And the magpies come in twos,
(Nana told me
What that meant once)
But now I forget, and now I refuse
To believe that there is any meaning
In two magpies singing, alas
I do not think they will sing for me.

Wait for me there,
By the crescent tree
Oh, nature’s stair, built
From bark and root,
Grown from fallen fruit.

Wait for me there,
Where the ivy clothes
Swirl into white skin
And where the fawns
Go to moot and sing.

Wait for me there,
By the shallow pond,
Lie down at the bank,
Tangle in the lilies, and
Wait for the thirsty fillies.

Wait for me there,
Down by the thin ridge,
Where rabbits sit
And chew the earth,
Bit by bit.

Wait for me there,
Between the rock
And chiseled stump
Where moss never grows,
And dirt begins to lump.  

Wait for me there,
Where the promise is kept
And my time is unspent,
Wait for me there, darling
Show me how you care.

Spaces form between foreign fingers,
Resting hands go stale on oak tables
Where infatuation peeks and lingers.

Cups and candles placed like pawns
Waiting for battle, cups and candles
Lay between love and smiles.

Plates take their seats, carrying
Conversations and dripping mistakes
From one mouth to another.

Glasses touching and kissing,
Stirring desire into love, and
Teaching courage how to dance.

Knives and forks lay dormant,
Imprisoned to the landscape
By moving lips and perpetual talks.

Chatter comes floating, bound
To the bubbles and the foaming,
And ending at ears steaming.

Spilt love soaks the evening,
Washed out by late night dreaming,
Disguised as buoyant thinking.

Moonlight covers the pebbles gathered,
Soaking the shore in shade and fog, walk along
This beachfront, in sandals and white socks.
Take your toes and your feet, and embark
In the shallows of the sea, splash
And splash at the sand’s edge, until ***** and fish
Swim towards your disturbing intent,
Forgo their cares, send fish and crab skipping,
And splish and splish at the water’s end.

The mermaids are in wake, grieving their friends,
And pouring tears into the waves, they cry in song
Wallowing out loud the ocean’s fables, and
Stirring the great waters with their lurking tails,
Bubbles form where their tears have dwelled,
Carrying their grief to the surface, and popping
Once they touch where night is held, releasing
The weight from their sullen faces, and
Now the mermaids may smile again,
Their songs shift from misery to mirth, and
The moon smiles back, kissing new light
Upon the cheeks of the emerald earth.

The chain is brought back to you,
You distrbued the *****, and you disturbed
The fish, you distubured the waters.
The mermaids, they never bothered
To gaze upon your crimes, they never even
Bothered to give you their time, they sang
Not to you, but they sang for your sins, healing
What you could not, and sending
Your demons back, back to the rot and rock.

Resume your normal day, walk your dog
Along the paved waterway, and sing
Your songs of joy and hope, and hope
To settle near pebble and boat. Most things
Now make you smile, crack a smirk
To the ramblers on their Sunday travels,
Teach the postman and teach the milkman
What the mermaids have taught, show
Them the meaning of the mermaids’ song.

Join your limbs, curl your toes,
Muffle the children, and knead the dough.
Pour the milk, and drink it straight
Scold  the postman  for being late.

Greet your lover and whisk the butter,
Gently frown, and skip away in laughter.
Speak in tongues, and kiss the door
Raise a glass and tighten the cord.

Stack the books and climb on top,
Stumble a little before jumping off.
Hang like the cherries upon the cherry tree,
Blossoms now falling, you are now free.

The pavements creek down London Road,
Slabs of stone lay uneven, waiting
For a misstep or perhaps a purposeful tumble
So that the day may begin.
A young lad, no older than twenty,
Takes the day’s virginity, and yet
He gains nothing from the exchange,
Left to curl into the floor, strapped
To an overturned slab.

And on this fragile surface, this new
Home of his, he separates the loose
Fragments of pavement into shapes
And size, hoping he might find
Some pattern and rhyme.

But the floor is unforgiving
And misleading, offering
No rhythm and no reason.

All this perpetual solidarity, all
This miserable conformity and lack
Of understanding takes a toll
On his youthful hands as the shards
Pierce his skin and convince blood
To pour out onto the streets.

He is tough but his skin has retired,
His exterior is withered and begins
To smell of a gloomy musk, and yet
His skeleton still dances eagerly on
Behind all the frowning rot.

Passerbys readily move on, dodging
His numb and hopeful soul
As they know it will soon become
A sunken and nameless corpse.
But, until then,
Our street bound friend
Seeks desire and fortune, but luck
Seeks privilege and passion, leaving
Only the welcoming dusk
To bring kindness to the streets.

He is not the only one, the sun rise
Washes dead men ashore, dry
And unloved bodies find themselves
Motionless and dull, glued intimately
To the jagged street floor.

But these bodies once lived!
Their fingers thrived on tobacco dust
And half burnt poorly rolled papers.

Their mouths fed on second hand
Crumbs, leaving a foul aftertaste
Perhaps guilt or malicious tongues.  

Their voices garnered an audience,
Proving uneducated souls could please
Others through word and love.  

Their eyes witnessed
The intricacies of the changing seasons,
They saw autumn wilt and winter born.

Their hearts pumped pure, drugs
And blood rushed through streams
In their arms and powered
Their merry croaking lungs.

And they were once loved.
Indeed, they were loved.

Perhaps not by their mums, or
Unborn sons but by existence.
Life’s brilliance dwells
In the dead men on our streets,
A reminder that merely existing
Is a burden, but also
The greatest responsibility.

Out there hides mischief made,
Adorned in the smiles of tariffs
And trades
But in here, in these construed
And garnered walls
Slumbers the chief of miss timing
And improper confiding.
Untalented men take fruitless lies and
Place them brick by brick, until they
Stick, stick,
Stick. A miss timing at this point
Will mark the novice liars, and
Blemish their masked desires. Perhaps,
It’s best to leave this hapless labour
To the more well-tempered neighbour
So that they (like us) can weave
In the lies and lust
Of saying ‘I love you’ rather
Than naught. Perhaps,
This is the better choice, to lock
The voices inside, and silence
Those ever so distraught by our
Unconditional decisions and thoughts.
It is unanimous then, the neighbour
Shall take the job and you
(the inexperienced boy)
Shall vacate your dreams, and bow
Down to the universe like a
Daft begging dog. Perhaps,
Then (and only then) we ought to throw
The inexperienced boys asunder
So that they may learn
How to dance with the thunder.

It’s bin day tomorrow,
And the Sunday weather is meant to arrive.

                   Perhaps we can skip  
                          the morning complications and    

Lay intertwined.
So apropos, that would be just fine.