A blackbird and a moonbeam
once buried in my memory,
now - not to be imagined, just
dust and fragments,
feathers, darkness,
starriest loneliness; rush of breath,
a breeze
at the window, open
to the night, with streetlights
shimmering through, everything white;
my vision fading
beneath the screen
of so many feathers. Only cars passing, one after the other -
together.
       A reminder
of time, flies
humming, in the ear;
that familiar sting
screaming forever.

The sun loses its shine
in spiralling time
and a world decays
in the greyness of age;
so the saying says.

A lie.

Doubt the blackening
of the clouds in the sky, don’t doubt
the energy in your blood so alive;
all the rain, all the water
cannot wash away love.
Reach for those dreams
you’ve been thinking of.

Blow out the candles;

Your own smoke alone
is making you mad; the chemical
concoction of red, red rage
may be poured, coherently
upon a clean white page. Made safe.

So remain forever, stay
your favourite age; mother,
each day is a dawn,
a fire, a jewel
clearer than a river, rare
as a shower of meteors,
a dream like no other.

Upon the strand of a beach so fair,
the dappled thread of golden hair,
rinsed and washed by withering waves
seeking to clean its spoils and frays.

Twisted around the neck of a cliff
the sea shall swathe the island in mist.
Only the speck of a hotel white
can bleach the flawless shade of night.

To explore the caves around this shore,
then crawl back home forever more;
to taste the salt-stung ghosts that float
a journey of horrors, entails no note.

In hollow dank caverns the truth reveals,
yet for a young boy it remains concealed
in the tangles of anguish, domestic despair
he’s left quite desperate and prone not to care.

Upon a quest he must embark
to chase the maiden perceived in the dark,
and catch the shadows of symbols quick
become stronger and board this ship;

This terrible vessel will not bear him home.
Firstly, from a clandestine nest he must have flown
to break from the gloom surrounding his name,
to purge all the secrets from whence he came.

Only ghosts he collects, leaving him vexed;
the island yet moans: ‘where will he go next?’
And the wind whips at the hotel’s affairs
whilst the villain sleeps still within his lair.

Impossible slanders he cannot overcome,
his story exposed, nature now shunned.
For what is a Mother who abandons her care?
A quiet reminder of the sea’s mellow stare.

Across the hills I swung my feet
and skipped along, tingling with glowing glee,
my trainers treading out a beat;
I made the heat all swirl and surround me.

And at the top of some summit
I saw trees sway in flourishes and frills,
whilst on a statue I did sit
and shiver in a wind that swiftly chills.

Then the descent! - blissfully free
I now bound down through bracken and green grass,
with thorns and nettles stinging me -
until the road, where through a gate I pass.

On the concrete I make progress,
mentally I’m reciting poetry -
so that in verse I can regress;
yes - to youth, to magic I quickly flee.

The clouds now thicken; homeward bound
I listen as I hear the traffic roar,
and children spilling out with frowns;
I know in the country I am no more.

So before I reach home I think
the world so strange, that within just a mile
it might suddenly change! The brink
of nature’s grace; lost without denial.

crushed up
our love, a cloud in the air
like the death of a moth
crumpled in a child's palm,
all passion, all blood
turned to dust

in my heart an absence,
memories snatched;
little silk pieces strung like spider webs
across my chest:
amnesiac
you sob red rain
for love's lack, nothing left
except
that stabbing pain.

But in this bleary life there's billions
left to gain.

For the first time
in years, I have spoken
to you; not in person, alas -
on the phone, it is true.

I snapped your heart
quite perfectly
in two, but time brought me back,
back, back
to you. And through
my thoughts you swallowed a cliche,
while I whistled and stared
out at the waves, then
in a whirl of skirts,
I walked away -

Only on the phone.

I forgot your voice,
so there were only words
after the tone, a message
to remind me
that I’m lovingly
alone.

You storm the kitchen like livid soldiers
in hollow combat
brandishing stingers,
no camouflage is cunning enough
to cover up your lethal colours -
sinful stripes of black, yellow.

Beads of ink, eyes of malice
flash as you swipe and violate
skin, in painful ******* - an evil act of love;
hateful wasp, what is it that you want?
What makes you lust for human blood?

You are the waste of summer:
the wretched lowlifes, airborne brats
and savage lads inducing fear
amongst both dogs and cats.

You circle workers
with your vicious sneer, possess
an uncanny absence
of all natural innocence.

Pleasure-seekers and noise-makers,
you ******* of August
buzzing at honey traps;
a sugar addiction your weakness,
your final collapse.

Flailing, you flap about
furious at human trickery;
Immersed, all syrupy
your wings weigh
like lead, and then
motionless you float;
at last, your crisp carcass
black and dead.

For want of a sunrise
My mind wakes so sadly
At night, when the world
Lies bright in hard clarity;
Staring, staring – and seeing
Right through me. Enough
                  Of silence, the wind wails and
Screams with fury. At me. Blackening -

I wait,
gaze, while my glassy
hope gets polished,
catching a
flicker
Of some lacklustre blaze

Behind me;

With ravenous greed glows
The sky; a garish smile
Glares through dancing curtains,
dusted with sparkling
diamonds of time, as dawn

breaks her teeth, she glints
without sunlight,
a **** of grey upon
the wintery haze beneath.

I should still be asleep.

Instead, the rain fills me, spills
from sudden clouds
of bloodied red;
with nothing but burning
and stillness -
the world might be dead.

You stand quite lost, lost in your mind
as a picture does not capture
the austerity of light, in coldest bind.
You seize blind faith as if to say
that nothing works but running stray.

I am no fool but I see no fear;
you won’t walk quick
if I stand near. And getting close
your thoughts now reek, like a starlet;
all cherries and laughter and flushing cheeks.

Puzzled so hard by broken bones
I watch you turn and twist, insist
that only my neck you wish to strangle;
that only my eyes will drown
your sorrows.

Thump thump* bellows
the pavement, cracked beneath
my toes, as my heels click hard
on concrete stone. Thump
echoes right through
the ground, my thoughts fast whirling
round and round; snatched
up and strung
with tarnished shine;
only the slabs knew what
was mine. Now I sleep in trees
sweet saplings safe,
curled up like a buttercup,
nursing
the marble heart
in my favourite place. Leaves rolling
skittish over my face, a sigh,
a brush; the earth I taste.

The lanes were strewn with mud
and spattered in fury,
a flurry of blood. Home
he could not reach, in his hurricane
Land Rover he was lost;
lost in the bitten blue
of a windshield blown
with shrieking and sinew.

Only his lover laid a hand
on his arm, softening
the steering, breathing out calm. Sighing
she spoke, voiced a lie
of the night; to which he hissed
and laughed
and callously cried.

Suddenly shouts
shot through the gloom, the shaky
seats, the engine vroom;
flashed out
in streets slithered
with rain, she saw
the point, the place again

and touched the cracks
that marred his face, and felt
the heat of his disgrace. Sirens
melting reality. Wait,
wait, wait for me.

I love you December, with a fierce fever
that pigments my cheeks a wild fervent blush;
skating on bright ice, my challenge steeper
in the land of slippery snow I rush

to seek out magic, that glistening love
so far and so fair, yet not beyond reach;
glaring a melody I know not of;
there are stars speaking a shimmering speech.

Now the Eve is nigh and the sparkles set
so carefully my hopes are frozen still
in a rhinestone pudding of finest jet,
now lightly I glide not down but uphill.

And an astral fate will bear its great rich peace
Upon the Sunday of this lovely feast.

There was a time when I
remembered, long ago
that summer which did parch
my soul,
left thirsty on the windowsill
with nought but a skeletal wind
to whip my skin,
when the moon
speaks silent
and swallows me whole.

Erase, erase
the words on the page
and scratch out
the I
shadowing my mind

with one blot,
spilled ink,
smashed wand of a pen

I’m ruthless
in ripping,
starting swiftly again;

following the dots
with endless green eyes, trace
spirals,
failing to see, to surmise

the bleeding graffiti
of my face. Leave 
and this moment, believe,
I will never replace.

There was a little boy
once, crouched nervous
on the stairs, in the house with no heating,
his heart black and bare.
It’s the end of eternity;
He’s lost his daddy.

On the battlefields, bleak
with fanfares, furious
flag-wielding in shrieks of despair
and soldiers shedding
their selves,
their blood
for what? -
for War.

Oblivious, with Reality
relayed through a television prism,
the tragedies managed
the carnage rewritten.

And she too is shivering. Her mother
holding her, holding her,
telling her
she loves her
with the radio background
spouting
everything’s fine

but her daddy’s gone:

Blasted
by a mine.

Far away in time
in landscapes
unearthly, where gravity,
where sense, where shadows are defied;
there, only at night
in the stillness, the soft music,
the echoes of children’s cries
make a contrapuntal chorus
amidst the blunt gunshots,
the loss of good lives.

The memory,
the victory,
the double-edged knife.

I let myself go, when all I wanted was
             To be in control, no notion
Of living, only emotion
And what it means to be whole,
Means to be driven.

Button up
The remnants; tight thread
Of frost plaited in hate,
Thick
Along my skin, now
To think it is the
spin
Of pain that keeps
things silkily thin
beneath my lashes, beat
The love I’d burned
To ashes. Never again –
But then, with sickness
I cannot ever quite pretend.

Home at last, the semester now flown past
and I'm painting the moments spent at home
with my gold glitter brush, these seconds last
as glinting jewels in my memory trove.

Glasgow you are gone, if only for a while,
barely even three weeks I won't see you
or walk the streets with wobbly feet and style
that swirls in smoke and shops and strong perfume.

Now I am free from the vivid buffet
of figures in violet down Byres Road
brimming with bustle and bags of dismay;
dissolved to a quiet flickering glow.

Maybe this will in time quite senseless seem
but for now Glasgow grows dim like a dream.

With December’s breath I am whole again,

crackling with hope in the grey and rain,

Through rotting leaves I wander and wade

relish the decay of these days.

Oh my brain, it is scorned by the horror of words

and infinite texts that seem so absurd,

in the library I think, and I bite back my cries,

each bitter reminder that love lies in lone skies.

But, no! There is hope, for the ice is in bloom

and snowflakes now cluster on the window of my room,

and the waste of the winter is not quite a tundra

for I hear the bells call, the semester goes under.

All chitchats and language now swirl into view

through the fog of sorrow glints the elusively new,

and my mind will assent to only this;

this lovely thought, this season, Christmas.

And I stifle no cynicism, having no reason to moan, 

I’m bound home on the train, quite simply alone,

save for the spirits that spin in my head
,
the prospect of faces, not books to be read!

Farewell to the city, if only for a while,

The lights are lavish in their pretty little smiles,

but I am not transfixed, I am barely aware

for the glow of my home is for all I do care!

Now I slip into the safety of Daisybank’s arms,

with many hot stews my stomach is calmed.

In this brief time comes embracing warmth;

no exams, no essays, no tears of scorn.

For my kin I am blessed

and with their presence no longer am I oppressed;

yes me, the starving soul of a girl

lovelorn and hungry for her home, this world.

And all that is festive, shimmering gold

is in the hands of many to hold,

and pass the gifts that press their love

and know one day is not enough

To reap the sense of seasonal joy

to forget the stress of being employed

and swallow all that one can eat,

a cure, a remedy sweet for one’s deceit.

Yet as long as the photo does not fade away -

remains a flashlight amongst the verges of decay -

then with every star may we make the wish 

to prolong the soar of a spirit submerged in bliss.

She’s curled up in
a coffee shop,
all arms, long legs and a book
that’s shut.

Alone, she stares
at couples embrace,
the syrupy slurs of love
in haste. With much

Resent she sips
her tea. Leaves lipstick stains
for the waiter to clean. And wonders,
hopelessly,
“what will become of me?” And slowly
frowns as she unfurls, standing up
to greet the man
who calls her
“honey”.

Wake me with wordless curses at this hour,
A whirl of turmoil, a spirit shaking
With willful absence of feeling’s power -
Comes the shameful pain of a mind breaking

Down all the sorrows held under the bed;
Reluctant, the silent sounds just stutter,
Leave mirages of what needs to be said;
Thoughts thump and my heart a vicious flutter.

And yet the flavour of polished sadness
brings softly the glow of some golden past,
A time when life was clear of this madness,
Picturing peace, with relief I can gasp:

For while I might suffer with pain today,
Tomorrow may yield a hope that will stay.

Itching, itching
in unending irritation,
eyes puffy and leaking,
spilling salt
over molten cheeks -
bed-bound and awfully weak.

I cannot stand it;  
I am a shell, broken
my pieces are very light
and punctured - not watertight -
I let in a virus,
vicious, with the waves
I languish; only
a withered cord tying me
to life.

For in a few weepy blinks
I might die.

It comes to me as no surprise
this disease -
please, it speaks no lies,
it eats my brain
just like some blind child
that’s starved and so senselessly wild.

No memory, no hesitation,
this is me - alive,
afloat with those ****** bubbles,
those parasites
that gloat and bruise my concentration -
wreak hell upon my mind.

So see me, here,
flattened,
by the potion of alienation
I am pie-eyed, senseless;
a study for your contemplation.

Little green boxes,
their screams pierce my ears,
their space sears my eyes,
I cannot explain
their shape,
symmetry,
surprise.

Little green boxes,
I cannot escape, four walls
a reminder
of failure to create.

Up here I feel the electricity,
all the scattered lights of rainbow matter
tall colours and stars sprinkling the city,
and in the centre, my mind grows fatter.

When I float to lectures I’m lost in words,
so much knowledge, fizzing fast in my ear -
and my voice the smallest in all the world
how weird to feel flat when I’m living here.

But in time this place became less frightening,
it’s littler up-close, and gentler to me;
the labyrinthine streets, now so exciting,
foreign to strangers, but not strange to me.

Though my heart stirs with the sweetness of home,
this city has grown a love of my own.

My art
is my eyes,
their gaze, their glare
each seething iris
spills love,
despair.

My days all filled,
I shrink and live;
a half regret
my sight,
unfed.

Never quite sure,
or still, mind sore,
caught up
in fate and folklore,
I can only weep light
so my canvas remains;
still,
heartless.

Needles
In golden light I seek my path
through simple woods and shards of glass,
With sighs and sleep I seek to end
the dreary cruelty which now descends.

From veils of pleasure bursts piercing pain,
so lost in wisdom that bears no name;
Wild secrets shimmer beneath cold stars,
not even dreams shall lend a heart.

Whilst in a state of desperate woe,
now in the rain with tears that flow,
no light will shine, no soul will sing;
around the deaths of everything.

And walking breathes a warmth, a plea,
letting the needles swallow me
in aching silence, veins that burn
I listen, alone, to the fate I've earned.

A pale pink rose sits wilting
  upon the sill of amber light
her lovely thoughts keep shifting. With
   good clear sorrow she smiles
through dust,
and thinks of summer’s fading lust.

A frozen day might seal her fate,
her petals fall in autumn’s wake.
   Yet fearless,
she skips through seasons with haste;
  for no snow can quite chill
       the warmth from her face.

Perseverance on my tongue,
a silken thought in silver ink
I scrawl strange patterns on the sun
and watch for daybreak to dismiss
the blackboard starlight drips and runs.

Now listless with my aching legs
I’m counting candles, chasing smoke
that filters yellow, drains the dregs
of coffee, cold and drowned of hope.

By tingling error I swallow words,
boredom pervades the bitter night
with a whistle, tuneless, that seems absurd
I empty out my troubled mind
to exhale sadness; curled, entwined -
quite futile, like staring when blind.

Snow
drifts soft
in puffs of white
like milky smoke
melting on ice,
and she shivers,
spiritless, inside
the painted winter light
she gleams,
a quiet sapphire in
the night, her breath,
her heart
quite cold, contrite.

Cocooned in her darkness
she stirs at no sound,
lying quite motionless
while the world rushes round.

Hid within her bubble,
starves herself of love;
she’s immune from trouble
with the purest blue blood.

Only precious magic
can make her mind reach out,
its absence quite tragic;
a soul she is without.

No rescue she desires,
numb coldness she craves;
Princes scrambling through fires
she will not entertain.

As time trickles outside
it freezes within,
by denial she abides;
no spirit in her skin.

But at last appears sun!
And life suddenly calls!
Her protection is done -
she melts all her dark walls.

Her ****** eyes see sky,
a hope not dreamt of;
there is only a light -
the soft glow of some love.

She Stands
She stands
in contemplation. Her thoughts
composed, complete
in concentration. Framing her features
her hair hangs limp;
silver bleeding
from the roots.

Exposed;
she exhibits
her bleach-worn failures,
the sun’s peroxide
stripping back years.

Around her
a beach so bleak. No horizon.
She watches, sifting,
seconds slipping
between her toes,
like sand
She stands
in silence. A stillness
adorned by waves
crooning. Calling
the morning,
which slips from her grasp.

Momentary,
the strokes of surf
like fingers seizing
grains of time.
Shards of history
softened,
gently.

Hands are creased,
palms etched with time.
Her eyes
cast to the ground. Crow’s feet
stretching skin;
elastic, like thought. She glimpses
down,
sees the crumbling remnants
of her shattered past.
Furrowed brows,
a pause -
inspiration;
salvation from her flaws.

sleeping
      on a train
and waking
      feeling safe.

Such slippery symbols
spill over
and over
one other;
tumbling down each
page, like a word
mixed up
in a mind
deranged.

The flame is my passion,
my passion the flame.
Flickering,
intangible:
the light twisted,
insane.

The fire cannot love,
its blue soul has no fear.

As it floats in motion,
I am torn apart,
curious,
the heat on my hand,
a wound in my heart.

No second will slice,
only water, not ice
and love
like coal,
burns out, grows cold.

In the hall I hear a girl. And the tremble
of a lute;
its melody fluttering from under her door
I taste her sorrow and share its truth.

By dusk we’re quiet as cloaks descend,
a veil so fluffy, there is nothing
only bleak air and the motorways
of our thoughts; which trace the lanes
racing slow across white moors.

My clock is sad, she’s moving so slow
I cannot relax until with joy
I toast
to the vast unknown. A hand
will reach out so lovely, so clean;
and comfort me softly, as harmony leaves.

Could we cut ourselves off from our country?
Burn all the books and monochrome rules;
Sever the fragile vessels of history?

I want to walk fast without news in my ear
over hills and fields and so thrilled with fear;
I want to take a tab
of fantastic poison
and see the world lit up
in a kaleidoscope of flags.

Through woods, past trees,
I will kick leaves
and brave a universe of tumbleweeds.
And from beneath a
canopy of luxury
a paradise I see
past the sun, where all is free
and hatred wastes and bleeds.

But everything is not as it seems -

Back home I dream in cut-throat numbers
vile quantities disturb my slumbers.
My identity drifts in the TV;
Jeremy Kyle makes my last plea
as my ears fill with adultery.

And then there are debts
that flash up - my patience cracks
into a pool of anguish.

I must get away,
get away from this madness.

The sweetness of love
by night is fated to sour
as the blood drips
like dewdrops from every bower,
your face milky pale
as a lily, deathliest of flowers.

You fail to look at me, you,
steeped in your own greed
without care for my needs,
eyes close as I choke on midnight blues,
the moonlight reflecting
your every hue; those the shades
of parting, the last taste of fruit.

Alone with the trees, each breath of air
is an utterance, a whisper gifted to the wind,
inside recalling the bones
of bitterness and sin;
those the days of torment, sliced skin
on razored leaves. In darkness
it is the flesh alone that heeds.

Stood hopeless; our thoughts like
blossoms strewn upon mud -
blown apart by the shuddering gulf
that drowned us in the flood.

Into a kettle
I let vapour drip, all of you - witches brew
- I float and whip
your ev’ry hue,
so to me
you stick, so thick like glue;

never ready,
a red and bubbling stew
oh yes
it was death we dodged, flew through

into a mess of petals
on which
I tripped;
my heart in flips,
falling for you, my lips
all blue. To stone I turned;
the flowers around us grew.