What do infants dream of?
Do they dream of wombs?
Places dark
and comfortable
and perfect beyond comparison.
Sedating heartbeat above regular
and comforting
like a vascular clock.
Always keeping time;
always breathing life.
Do they dream of mothers *******?
Soft pillows of nurturing flesh.
The source of life on their planet.
Flowing ivory elixir,
from soft rose *******.
Do they dream of us?
Of grotesk giants
that pinch cheeks
and speak in meaningless howls.
Smiling oversized faces
that clean the **** that builds below
where that sweet tube once provided life.
Gnawing white stumps
eating indigestible hunks of flesh,
or plants.
Do they understand love?
Can they dream of pure emotion?
Without the words and representations of it interfering?
I wish to be like this.
I wish to be swaddled,
to have dreams about nothing,
and real.
Dreams as pure and amazed
as a teary eyed infant.

I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just with his mid seventies look instead.

Sown and grown in a house
from the past,
fixed by the full swing of
the can-do and will do,
not by the we’ll get through
or the *******.

****** by the plum tree
because its root system
sat lower than the toilet seat,
in the downstairs bathroom,
working radiator- never any heat.

Tantrums on the second step
because bad-mannered children
never want what they get.
But in hindsight, and I’ll admit,
they were doing it good, doing it right,
doing it by the book
printed in black and white.  

Nothing but rocks and stories where I’m from:
pebbles in the path
between the herb garden grass;
box hedge borders that’ll protect
and last;
stone walls hiding cancers and dangers,
unwanted gifts from door-to-door strangers;
postmen in shorts
with their all-weather legs;
women up the road
with their cool-box eggs;
neighbours behind curtains
hiding help not guns;
children in the street,
they’re somebody’s loved ones.

I’m the son of my Mum,
product of Dad-
just this time round
tall, grateful and glad.

“There’s a strange stalker in my chest, walking fast, unable to rest.”

And how you know it,
feel it every day,
sleep with its weight
as your comfort and dismay.
A blanket of shame to wrap yourself in;
another way to get warm,
another game to play.
Sleep alone and sleep thin
thoughts, weave them into dreams
until you feel distraught.
You
killed
a child
you
didn’t
want,
moved away back to Vermont.

You, to me, are the drugs I need
Planted inside me like a seed
A constant thought circling my head
You fill my habits up with lead

You are the ******* in my brain
My heart races faster than this train
Beating louder than metal against its frame
Just one more bump might keep me sane

You are the acid under my tongue
As slowly my imagination comes undone
Together we take two trips as one
And when we get home, a changed me I’ve be come

You are the ecstasy making my sweat
That thought I keep getting that’s making me wet
Sleeping all day till the sun is set
The we’re up all night like we just met

You are the **** smoke in my chest
Taking me higher than all the rest
To fly with you I will do my best
To be with you I will fail every drug test.

You gave me the child
that seamed my belly
& stitched up my life.

You gave me: one book of love poems,
five years of peace
& two of pain.

You gave me darkness, light, laughter
& the certain knowledge
that we someday die.

You gave me seven years
during which the cells of my body
died & were reborn.

Now we have died
into the limbo of lost loves,
that wreckage of memories
tarnishing with time,
that litany of losses
which grows longer with the years,
as more of our friends
descend underground
& the list of our loved dead
outstrips the list of the living.

Knowing as we do
our certain doom,
knowing as we do
the rarity of the gifts we gave
& received,
can we redeem
our love from the limbo,
dust it off like a fine sea trunk
found in an attic
& now more valuable
for its age & rarity
than a shining new one?

Probably not.
This page is spattered
with tears that streak the words
lose, losses, limbo.

I stand on a ledge in hell
still howling for our love

I am so confused
flustered really
so I am here to ask you
what is your name?
who are you?
why do I get butterflies in my stomach when you pass by?
why do I find myself more than once staring into your eyes?
do you think of me?
why do I think of you?
Thank you.  For being here.
And answering my questions.

My tired eyes close,
To retreat to a sheltered mind,
Weary from the fighting,
A war of words.

This is what i never wanted,
To pick up my sword,
And stab you in the heart,
With my words.

All this time passed,
To be wasted upon bitterness,
For you have a narrow mind,
And I a narrow heart.

Have we been blind,
To walk the miles we have walked,
Spent the moments we have spent,
It wasn't wasted.

Wasn't in vain either,
Our lives intwined for a mere moment,
When it did it felt like magic,
Now that feeling is gone.

Replaced with the hollow emptiness of a warrior,
And a bitter spear my right hand clutches,
If I could replace this with your love once more,
I'd drop my weapon and take the final blow.