I

We lost the art of brand new sight,
of sleep unaided in dreams of flight,
when tendons grew
our hopes diminished,
we set to flame
all the books we had finished.

We faced childhood's end upon the start
of routine pain and a world-weary heart.
When sadness grew
without a good reason,
we viewed happiness
as just a passing season.

We felt parents weep upon our shoulder,
experienced loss but never grew older.
The passing of time
has kept you away,
but upon my first kiss,
I shall ask you to stay.

II

Our father was a lion buried under the mound
in the jungle grass of our garden. When trains
passed by at night, we roared our father's calls
back to him. We always felt we would meet him.

In boundless energy, we would climb the tree,
scale the back-alley car-park, parading maladies
as a badge of honour. We were going to be
astronauts, playing football on the moon.

There was no time for debts or tomorrows,
only the taste of sugar and plastic mints.
A long soak in the bath was a punishment,
with nothing but dirt to wash away.

III

I think of you in comfort
as I open unfamiliar doors,
as I fall in love with a photograph,
as I find myself sleeping on floors.

I think of you in solace
when waking up is hard,
when love has been reduced
to the print of a greeting card.

I think of you too often
as I dodge another bill,
as I waste a field to play within
and settle for the windowsill.

I started sipping on nettle tea
after I figured I should warm myself
now I cannot afford the heating bill
I could not quit the cigarettes
nor the obsessive clipping of the skin
around my fingernails
it is the kind of night to call you
it is the kind of night
not to be alone
I am getting good at it now though
They have started a new reality show
on the nature of consciousness
but mostly they just **** and fight
it is fantastic to watch
I think we are being prepared
to begin surveillance on each other
in this broken down state
I hope you will catch me stealing
I hope you will look out for me
it is all that I do

I thought the ceasefire had come.
I had survived the press gangs
and carpet bombs
and the drum of war had been
reduced to the constant undying
thud of my heart.
I was hoping to feign retreat.
Three days of deepest winter
before a new year in the sun
hanging like Christ over the Zodiac
and not from the branch
of my father's tree.

The extension cord came loose.
Bread knives are now curious
fascinations
and sit in my stomach like
so much red wine and that writer's pride
in greeting death.
I was hoping to gain a peace.
To place it like a necklace
or badge of honour on my breast
to remind the tourists of the ******
that ravaged the town
I had grown up in.

I have eight years left to die.
After that I will grow fat
and loose in mind
and forget why sadness is
so important in the modern world
of dying art.
I was hoping for vague release.
Something to **** cowardice
and that hesitant breath before
the pull of a blade or jump to the sea
of endless black hole
and icy relief.

I thought the ceasefire had come.
We had stood outside to watch
the confetti
fall to the ground with delay
in a wind we had come to suspect
would destroy us.
I was hoping to gain belief.
I thought the rockets  had stopped
or else been pointed to the sky
in a bottled message from all mankind
to another place,
to another time.

Why?
Why sit when you can stand?
Why let when you can do?
Why go through the pain when you can fight?
Why follow when you can lead?
Why keep quiet when you can yell?
Why stay small when you can grow big?
Why "behave" when you can be yourself?
Why let others control what is rightfully yours?
Why?

I am broken inside,
beyond repair,
way past warranty.
I buy and I buy
to mend the damage,
but nothing fits.

Crave the entire world.
Hedging bets is a disuse.
Leave nothing to chance.
Throw everything at the moon.
Burn among the fallen stars.

Unbroken
the surface
in morning light

lone hawk
pauses in flight

alight on a pale blue sky.

r ~ 9/13/14

the citrus caviar
of the finger lime
is introduced to the
tongue

where the spheres
of sunshine and
pale green love
sit tingling.

until upward
pressure is applied
by the tongue being
placed against the roof
of the mouth

and the jewelled sacs
burst, releasing their cargo,
all **** and refreshing,
evoking a fine summers day
with just a hint of,
exotic islands in the aftertaste

and a desire,
for more delicate,
citrus love...

I've been had
Stabbed
I did not see it coming

The wound waits
Red-tapes the heal
It ruins it ruins

Stilled knife neatly in my side
But look!
there's a killer twist too

As she looks in my little eye
-Stare like granite smirking-
The broad side of the blade

Materializes from a silver-lining
Now a mirror
Her lithe eyes widen, alive alive

The reflection
A scene
Of her seems undoing [hero shot]

And scene