Formation is delicate.
A ripe cranberry will bounce.
Past times regurgitate:
Swap a gallon for an ounce.
I'm too soft,
Too hard,
White boiling, then cold.
This beanbag will mold
To every shoulder I hold.
Put the black ball away in its drawer.
STOP
BREATH:
Draw, draw.
"STOP!"
"STOP!"
(More?)
I should listen before I pounce.

January 2011

Resting:
Mouth wide,
Hands tucked.
A lust:
So ripe,
Satisfied,
Now ******.
Stale,
Stale,
Stale.
Awkward, sour, mouldy and pale.
And I won't brag of you there,
As she does of him here,
There is no need,
We're us,
Our intentions sincere.
And there's something so sterile about their romance,
Their drama.
Lost in translation.
Hot air,
Hot air,
Hot air.
And it's a joy to sit here and think of you,
Whilst she talks of him,
And genuinely not care.


December 2010

Her discomfort erodes,
Her howling glistens,
Her pain-stuffed groans
Are too much for a listen.
So my tears come thick now,
They come thick and fast,
As I watch my mother, a baby,
Vomiting up her past.

Corks of bottled pasts are popping,
Fury trains are slowing...
Stopping.
Recognise the ifs, the buts,
The wings, the ruts,
The shadows hopping.

Corks of bottled pasts are popping,
I'm a fury train and I need stopping.
Tinted blood,
Liver sopping,
Fetch a bucket,
It needs mopping.

Steam-rage bursts from veins and ears,
Peace erupts and all he hears?
"You've ****** me up for years and years,"
"For years and years and years and years!"

[Where is home?]
[Where is home?]
[Where is home?]
[Where is home?]
Not here,
So I'll destroy everything that you own.

"Restrain her!"
"Restrain her!"

Corks of bottled pasts are popping,
Fury trains are slowing...
Stopping.
Recognise the ifs, the buts,
The wings, the ruts,
The shadows hopping.
Boiling rows,
And dripping mouths,
And pools of vows
That now need mopping.

Life is a patchwork quilt of tea-stained elation upon a square of peach and yellow Liberty print.
Sour ghosts of maple tears were once so fresh, so sweet.
Now only a lifeless density drinks alone beneath the bare winter trees,
Abandoned by Spring's raw heartache.
Yes, density is the only distinct quality remaining to define those thick sobs of syrup.


March 2010

Fixed to you with bolts and nails,
I think of all the boats and sails,
Torn apart by angry gales,
Trains go flying off their rails,
Restless pain, it howls and wails,
Stabs again as plan B fails,
C's a risk, it's heads or tails,
But games and tricks leave endless trails,
And under bricks hide slugs and snails,
Like faces scared hide under veils,
I'm terrified but won't leave trails,
Of helplessness for hungry males,
My terror comes in buckets and pails,
But if I'm with you when all else fails,
I will not fear even fear itself,
Because nothing has failed at all.


March 2009

The sun pouts,
The carpet shines,
The one that doubts
is left behind.
The one that shouts
is pushed ahead,
Left alone, cold in the head.
Cold in the bone,
Cold in the blood,
Small on the throne,
Dry in the flood.


January 2010

My days are for me,
As yours are for you,
I'll be what I'll be,
You'll do what you do.
Exchanges of dust,
Embraces now changed,
Glances of lust,
Still taunting my brain.
But love keep your distance,
For I have concern,
It is this you must know,
This you must learn:
Relentlessly vicious, the cogs are that turn.
I erode and I sting and I drown and I burn.
And a dark orange rust drops as they grind.
Leaving a trail of flakes of a furious mind.
But the oil continues,
Continues to drip,
And greases them further,
And further I slip.
And the cogs gain momentum,
As my feet tell me "no!"
"No further, no further, no further we'll go",
So the pillows start grinning,
The blankets smile too,
The matress opens its arms for me to sink into.
And I know that as soon as my head touches those lips,
And I surrender myself to that feathery grip,
It could be days,
Who knows, maybe weeks,
Before I'm back out again walking the streets.
With two steps of a waltz that I couldn't not start,
All those caged birds flew out of my heart.
And what of the third?
The cogs have now turned,
And my feet cannot move,
What a lesson I've learned!


May 2010

Women quarrel on the hillside
Looking over the Quarry of Men,
Claiming their patch to spread their wings for the race;
Eagle, Pigeon and Hen.
She sees not her beautiful feathers,
Nor her elegant and menacing claws,
They could tear wonderful holes in this world of vanilla,
She's sharper than all of the saws.
Yet her mind is fixated on lesser ambitions,
This red tape is all that she'll cut,
And so the deed is done by the most desperate one,
As she swoops down into her rut.


May 2010

You cling to me.
You cling to me.
You cling,
And you cling,
And you cling.
LINGER...

You cling to me.
And I to you,
And I to you,
And I to you.

But at the opening credits of another white dawn,
I must bow down to the system,
RISE,
And curtsey to conformity.

It's the heaviest regret of my day; leaving you.
IRON.
Before the day has even begun; leaving you.
LEAD.

And when I do,
I forget the slopes and hills of your face.
How they rise and fall,
As we disremember a perfect dream.
I step out into the clutch of bitter airs,
Eyes down, catching the ice's gleam.
The glazed pavement plummets,
So I glide to follow it's dip,
But my hazed movement's done its
Best to make me slip...

And this is something now.
Heaven, heaven sent.
This is what this is now.
Formality's been bent.
And so I'll try to always
Let you know just what I meant.
But before I spill my guts out,
These butterflies must ferment.

A step back

Languish,
Drink,
Lament.

For my words come best post all of this,
And I sense a hovering dent.
(Confusion incoming)
To dent this sacred framework
Of fearlessness, excitement and neccessity.
Thumping intensity.
Then you comfort me like a child.

And the needle has been threaded,
But I've always feared the sewing.
I'm such a child in your arms,
Oh where is this going?
No, no, no.
No way of knowing.

SCRUB...
Paint chips off the wall,
The bath has run too deep,
But I welcome the confusion
That in my mind you keep.
For everybody knows
That what you sow, you reap.
So when I see that smile again,
Tangled brain-vines will weep.

I'm thinking....
I'm thinking too much.
I'm drinking too much.
Parallel lines: the worst and the best.
And it's the heaviest regret of my day; leaving you.
Protest,
Protest.


December 2010

Oh, we’re all half crazy Leonard,

Yes, we’re all crazy halves.

“And what?” She’d say.

And what?

And I’ve lost count of the thousands of times I’ve fallen in love with you.

Moments I won’t attempt to describe.

Or perhaps I should.

You deserve the effort, my love.

You deserve the thought process.

You deserve more than that.

It’s yours.

They’re moments of the most beautiful, christalline enlightenment.

Comfort and elation resting on a sour bed of terror,

Embittered with a dressing of lemon knives, red knuckles and gut thumping pain.

Unblotched. Unstainable.

Sacred.

Alas, unsustainable.

And they do become stained.

Eventually.

We stain them ourselves.

Eventually.

But watching your face framed in the wing mirror,

As we drove back from bingo,

Your friends sitting beside me,

Us all on the back seats,

(your beauty brought tears to my eyes.)

Nobody saw.

I swallowed; bit my tongue; wiped.

It is the oddest of sensations when tears are not married with sadness.

I’m not upset.

Tears of joy?

But no, not from laughing too hard.

Pain was involved. Pain was there. Pain raised its hand. Pain is present.

A gift?

Oh, we’re all half crazy, Leonard.

It’s not just Suzanne.

Yes, we’re all crazy halves.

Catch me if you can.

OH, WE’RE ALL HALF CRAZY, LEONARD.

Yes, we’re all crazy halves.

And last night, I fell in love with you again,

As you lay framed by another mirror,

Dying in the bath.


November 2010

You stand up tall,
Up strong,
Alone.
You need no
Horn,
Bass,
Trombone.
You're my love
You're my love
You're my love
You're my love
You're my love
You're my love
(drone).


October 2010

Yes, we are trying for perfection.
But perfection can not be obtained.
No, you can't tell callousness from affection,
Or green fields from a cold, steel rail.
I don't think we'll ever walk.
Foundations? Broken shoes.
And what did you say when we first met?
"I was born to be a muse."
Well, that's just what you are to me.
I love you, babe, forever.
I love you like the blues.
Like Billie's Stormy Weather.
I cut my hair again,
Like just before we started.
I always thought I was cut out for a hair-cut,
Like you were to be broken-hearted.
Like you were to be a muse.
I love you, babe, forever,
But it's a laughing life I choose.


October 2010

Labeling labels,
Categorizing divides.
Envisage division:
It is not visionary.
Illusion's melody rings crystal bells in my drums.
(beat)
So out of time,
My tongue with my mind.
Somewhere in the process between the conception of a thought to the articulation of that idea,
Ripe fruits rot and fresh seeds are censored, over analyzed and watered until they drown.
Enthusiastic wonderings chase the boat of a moving tongue,
But a distorted image I project unto myself,
And to you.
Tongue is held...
Boat missed.
A label I staple to these
(prison)
Cell walls.
Trapped steam won't cease to rattle this kettle.
And so,
Under confident musings will wilt,
fold,
And

t
  r
   i
  c
  k
    l
      e

      a
      w
    a
    y

But they will forever be buried in the soil of my blood,
So if someone is to find me and has the time to spare,
Let them take a *****,
And dig.


May 2010