wholeness is just out of reach

then it hits me
I am still seeking something
external to make me whole

Instead I now go inward towards
my knawing emptiness
and I make friends with my
suffering and pain

now in my heart there is good soil
for seeds of hope and love to grow

Blue veins that pace from on high
Or saunter, streaming in a drowsy
Way, day napping light into ocean
Sleep, carousing with slides of time
And dearest travelers to keep—
Where do you come from?
What is your source, a holy well
Or mountain tarn, the fallen cloud,
The rising waters that bursting sun
So ordains, what the wistful, traveling
Birds are want to herald by all thy names
As they speak from above on spry wings?
In my final day shall I know such peace
That your drifting lay delivers?  Or shall
The moon unface me as I dive into
Lost cloaks of the eternal oceans?
River, my final driver, take me on
Those pathways to the seas,
With open eyes welcoming
Under the lacing lakes,
Of greatest garment,
The bedding nights
Of gentle stars.

Let's Gaze At Each Other's Eyes
And Converse Through Our Thoughts.

It's been a while,
so off-the-cuff
with my sweet remarks
for the coffee rings
on the mantelpiece-
how it symbolises
entropy;
the debris of living entities,
the **** at the bottom of everything.

In reality I'm too lazy to clean,
too obsessed
with my lack of legacy
to notice the dust
that collects from old memories;
skin particles from parties long-gone,
all those fast friends
in the mirror,
sharing a tenner
across the kitchen floor.

The Drug took hold of me
from where love had left off,
throttling me
with its day-to-day panic
through my most tired routines,
the pillow-talk white-noise,
the anti-substance regime.

And now I'm tired of you,
you who I get high for,
you who brings me
to steady lows,
a subtle submission
only I can witness,
and only I can bleed out.
The Drug took hold of me
because you didn't;

because everyone let go
once I found a job,
once the money came in,
once my clothes weren't torn anymore.
They thought I was reborn.
A sober sunrise,
a cigarette at dawn,
slipping into the shower,
slipping into that
professional smile;
the bright whites
of the working day-
I have learned
to write and to cry
in the tears
of a crocodile.

A man becomes a calamity
without a woman,
or at least a love
that loves in return.
I have grown soft
in my bleak recovery,
waiting in the trash
of my poetic failures,
no longer looking
for those angry words,
no longer hoping to see
the city come to burn.

Something about her
the way she sips her beer
as if it’s tea, and she’s in a kimono
peering out into a storm
as the wind rattles the ***
and snakes through the silk
she undulates, sliding her finger
over the rim, then sips

I know the real storm
broods inside her frail frame
but she says little. mostly listens
and it drives me utterly insane
she should scream or bang on walls
she should throw ashtrays into tvs
but instead, she simply nods
her glazed eyes as still as pearls

She’s like a cherry blossom descending
towards the  muddy trail below
she will be trampled by hooves
of  merchants and thieves
and I am the charcoal cloud, aching
as I feel her falling farther from me…

my mother she applies a silence to her lips.  I don’t hear her go but can see that she is gone.  my brother falls asleep trying to remember the last time someone carried a tune.  the movie of his life is left by yours.

high up on the ridge
you stand me up

to look into my soul
closer now

I see your love
beating fast

and I fall deep
into your heart