Day breaks;
Presence aches.

Someone cries.

Someone dies.

Happiness is your self-made bliss.
Go seal it with the billionth kiss.

Night falls;
Repeat it all.

Wrap your ring of
words round;
Cushion the fall.
It shouldn't make much difference,
as your words mean
Nothing at all.

Je suis comme
le bruit de la
pluie
sur ta vie.

Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear
so I may hear
the rise of lilies
Marching down my throat

Naked ladies and daffodils
King proteas and petunias
Spinach, celery and rocket

For the venus fly-trap has lost her teeth
in semi-nation feasting --

My gut is a gaza-strip:
holier than seven maries
times eleven matzot, squared

Who would raise the dandelion and the khaki-bos,
Who would shield the cornflower and the joseph's coat
in semi-nation trepidation

My gut is a gaza-strip
My nerves: a dead sea . . .

But Gabriel,
blow your trumpet in my ear again
so I can see
the significance of shattering


14 August, 2014

It lays amongst an earthy mound
sweet venom rests on top
Strange figures pass without a glance
Until those old days stop

With not a whip it rests and hums
Lets out one desperate sigh
But petals hide it's secret dream
To make an easier fall and die

To be killed for a small misdeed of another
Must be an awful way to live  
But to you, a precious little flower
Is all that you can give

I am no more than what you
Make of me, but
No less than how you
Define me.

You could be the first point of contact,
****** upon my hand-crafted pedestal,
But you are self-interested and
An impartial judge to this acquaintance.

O if I could only write
Poetry worthy of your
Reading!
Find clarity in
Complexities.
Make Art and rhyme
of the unspoken.
Offer up my words
As tokens of my
Vulnerability.
Then, then you would see.

If only I could write a book
worth reading past the first few pages.
Not the type for school that
you read in stages in order to maintain
your vitality.
A book you can drown yourself in
without glancing at a screen.
Words you can devour
rather than glean.
An idyllic scene.
Far from the person you know best.

If only I could write myself
in a play.
My life mapped out from day to day
with instructions on my whereabouts
and actions.
Our conversations would be succint, artful
and with purpose.
I would have long, coherently structured
speeches and
always have the right things to say,
expressed in the wittiest way.
My life would be dictated by
Your entrances and exits.
All my plot lines resolved in
Act 3;
That would suit me.

O if only I could write those words;
The ones worth saying.
Those words different from our
Daily utterances.
Those words you have been
meaning to say but have not
yet had time to shape them round
your lips.
If I could write those words, I would.
Unfortunately it's just me.
But I will try, I promise.
Just you see-