in the shop window
the mannequin contorted
into a parody of summer beach living
even with the martini glass dusty and cracked
the hawaiian shirt, the flip-flops
the mannequin's long deep gaze forever painted blue
behind cheap sunglasses
sealed away behind faded curtains
straw beach hat tilted against
the harsh glare of a lightbulb for a sun
now this lifesized gaudy imitation of summer
is only the conversation starter for the old couple
who owns the store
with brighton beach memories
photographs of nineteen fifty eight
the heavy scent of cheap perfume
the shuffling of the old man bringing a cup of tea
this is where memories are bought and sold
where a piece of nineteen seventy six
could be had for two dimes and a nickle
its old men who hold the worlds histories
in their wrinkled hands
careworn baubles of a different age
its old men who have in their eyes loves lost and found
who have endless summer days in her arms
forever there back in sixty seven
this old man in his dusty store has more riches
than all the banks in the world
in his heart

sitting here in the late summer daylight
watching her tending to the line
see all her strength and beauty
know her complexity's and her easy smiles
know the girl kicking off her jeans backseat in the cool night
know the woman standing here by her man
everything iv ever wanted
no half measures...no lies

and i gather her up in my arms
gather up our wondrous dreamin
and we weave us a blanket of sun and stars
wrap it round us like a hearts lovin arms
we walk it on down by the old cathedral
sit hand in hand on the steps of forevermore
kissing our hellos and smile to eachother
no one will tread on our sacred stones
no one can stop the sweet love that shines in us
no half measures...no lies

my dreadlock honey asks me
to speak to all of you
weave you a poem
tell you the tale
how we had been two very lost souls
crashed into eachother in deepest dark places
of the world
saved eachothers lives
ran for the border and survived
now madly in love
no half measures...no lies
into the forevermore

while this left handed wind
scribbles in my head
the chatter it has with the cold marble
a hard mute sound that i cannot comprehend
i gather myself with one hand and delve into this beast
with a rabid twist of the inked hand
but even as the words fall one by one
to the page forming  its neat teeth
the capture device falters and the poem shatters
like a frail mind
its remainders are a mad little creature
not some graceful dove
and this mad little creature cavorts across
both mind and page with a trail of blood and pain
with a trail of closing doors
and silent accusations in eyes only imagined
this mad little creature now vaults
to the aperture between you and I
screams out to the listening world
not i...do you hear me...not i
the child of dawn isn't the wanderer of night
captivated by the moons silent slide in cosmic wheel
the dew eyed stranger at dawn is a manufacture of thought
not i
not i

a thin black silence settles over my head
not even the sound of falling snowflakes
in the semi-darkness of mid-winters night
my eyes capitulate trying not to see
the cheapened nickle plated christmas cheer
the road stretched out in into the pine forest
so near to perfection of decorative seasonal lights and toys
so rudely packed tightly into the open mouth
of wailing babes

her pale face painted
with expressions fleeting
joy flickers past sorrow
intense thoughts like shadows cross her eyes
but her words blunder along
crept up against stone wall and without effort
she makes her way past
to center herself in my heart

singular thought comes to me
as the sun's shadow creeps across my eyes
written there in obscure language
christmas wishes and dandelions in summer sun
all the very best of our world wrapped up in one

Wrapped in the warm
prison of the bedsheets
a cold foot sneaks past
and dangles in the air at the
end of the bed

I shiver like sailors of old
in this cold wind that blows
across my toes

I wrestle the blanket
for the sleep it maintains
all elbows and thumbs
****** this way and that
restless wanderers of designer sheets

I shiver like sailors of old
in this cold wind that blows
across my toes

As I grumble
look to the clock
Four AM glares back at me
a cold foot wiggles
a cold foot waggles
Ode to be a cold foot
sorrowful tale to be sure

I shiver like sailors of old
in this cold wind that blows
across my toes

I offer no offense
But my solitary wandering
Yet they are offended

Nothing but my handcrafted
Stone dragging behind
Like a ***** with his fragments of beauty
And thus my offense fills
The air they breath
So cannot help but be offended
By mere existence alone

The stone lost roadside long ago
But in my heart
I still feel the full bitter weight
Round my weary, weary heart

And so they remain offended
By my solitary wandering
Like a ***** with his fragments
Of decayed beauties
Still wishing a rose could be...

But it is an offense

Grey clouds cover the sky
Bearing hints and rumor
But offer no evidence of
Treachery or tragedy
Impaled by the stark contrast
Between the fearful cries of crows
And the better dispositions and grace
Of my own "oh-so-human after all" heart
I turn the engine on
Fight the tide
And decide to push further
Into this abysmal day
And the sunshine in my heart
Hope can sustain a man
When all reason and wit abandon

i dreamt
i moved into a apartment
with an old brick wall
and its decaying face
the old light hanging from a thread
swings on the open breeze
from the window
time seems to slow down to a crawl
so i can see each and every flaw
so i can feel each and every thing she wanted me to feel
so i can know each and everything she saw
and so i see the the moment captured in ink
on her sketch pad
a drawing of the wind in the trees
a image of the smell of the fresh cut grass
the thoughts of the passer-by
who looked with such stark wonder
at this open display of what we have all taken
for granted we could never achieve

the old brick wall
leaned into the wind
and held
for one more day
kept safe the world she held so dear
safe for one more stormy night
the old brick wall
with its spray painted messages
like how joe loves daisy
and how we should make love not war
the old brick wall
holds back the world
from coming into her quiet soul
into the paper flowers and lace curtains of her life

the old brick wall
was once the west most piece of
the boxers rebellion
he was sad all his life
torn from his violent profession
and forced to retire
and his fists lay idle
with objections written on them like scars
but after years he came to terms
with the reasons great and small
with the rationalizations made up and real
and found peace
he found his fists could be hands
and hands can pet a cat
hands can paint a masterpiece
write a love poem
hands can touch another person without hurting them
and he suddenly he didn't want to hurt anyone ever again
because he loved having hands
and all the beautiful things they could do
he would never have fists again
and that change in him  
was so profound that it became magical and
part of the old brick wall

so it will endure past its years
to protect her little scavenged world
her delicate life
her frail thoughts
because beauty isn't always
what the world thinks it is
a boxer can tell you that

4am sunday morning they broke into song
unable to contain their smiles
they cast aside the spent wine
and took their ribald song to the streets
with a fanfare of sound and light
like jesters of old
they painted smiles on the frowning old men
and placed rainbows over the bridges between
the carpets of the mighty and the halls of fable

by 5am they had made it all
the way in to the center of town
where a roadblock of uniforms thought to make sense
out of tealeaves and mint cookies
as the jesters just dance around their confusions
between their orders and
what the truth of the heart tells em is the song
and then we see the ugly show a pretty eye to the cause
as it marches in through the double dawn
one dawn for the sun
the other for the hearts of the lonely
and a secret one for me and her
in our lounge chairs by the top of the spike hill
kissing our sweet hearts to eachother

by 10am all but the most die-hard had fallen to dreaming sweetly
neath the juniper trees
while thouse few who clung to awakened hearts
sang softly and sweetly
of summer nights and fresh loves
unearthed from the ashes of the desperate pasts
all things made anew from all the things made old

by sunday evening
we had all danced all the dances
and kissed all the kisses till even the heat of passion couldn't fade
held eachothers hands
and smiled sweetly like memory's saying fare thee well till morrow
i would be crazy if it weren't for your hand in mine
here in the tropical sundown

sunday night so deep
and the only one left dancing is old harold
he's doing the charleston with the moon's echo on the waves of the sea
don't think he's ever been so happy
and as i drift off to sleep
with her in my arms
i know that i don't need to explain to anyone
that we are all jesters looking for a
song to dance to at 4am in the tropics

Mornings window
Creased with the night's vestiges
Peer over glasses
At the gathering sunlight
As the day builds
Cars tumble by rough road
Occupants have all eyes but blurred faces
Pierce the shadow of my hunched form
My fingers fly the keyboard
Steady flow of human words
Fall without grace but speed
A homage to the missing man
Where am I in this place
Where was I on this date
Shutter mornings window
Too old to care

breathlessly she speaks loves
as her body is engulfed in mine
i can feel her heart in her words
hear her desires in her hot eyes
as she consumes me with her passion
as she drinks deeply of my body and soul
and i lust to reach her moment
where our worlds collide
where she touches and i touch
souls
breathlessly she cries out
breathlessly  she grips my body with hers
and looking deep in my eyes
tells me she loves me forever
and as our souls meet for that ****** kiss
we know our futures past days years
together as one heart
one love
we lay cooling off
the room a dizzy spin
breathing hard
our bodies still connected
suddenly laughter catches
and we don't even know what's funny
whispering even though we are alone
we talk of our lives here in this strange place
of palm trees and lizards
of never-ending summer
winter nothing more than forgotten dream
we talk of marriage
and of children
we talk of one love with the one love in our hearts
time is ours and so is the world
we slip into soft dreams connected to eachother
in every way a man and woman can be
and more

the palace of the moment having sold out
of her usual tear soaked apparel
and her casual wear fascination needing a
quick fix lead her across the wastelands the shopping plaza
to this wind-soaked backlot and its hidden wonderland
the store has no sing
just a off green door with the words
only the accursed may leave
she shimmies through the door

he makes his way up endless sidewalk
doing a little dance step every few feet
because he knows that is what a madman
would do in his place
his rags are the best he could muster
but they will serve
to be mad is fashionable
and appearance and substance is everything
he mutter to himself
he walks the rainswept backlot and its blatant ****** factory
and finds a green door with the words
****** your own pretences
he slips inside to gaze with open awe

she keeps her politics in her pocket
the latest soapbox to preach the ******* line from
politics fashionista who dabble in whatever
the latest trend on facebook seems to lend
new age drivel or some bomb throwing **** with
a distrust of anything that might be another point of view
got a real open mind
long as it something she wants to hear
shes occupying the breeze block in the backlot
sitting by a green door with the words
believe in nothing and that's all you'll have
she whimpers at the thought
but she trots in to take a look

he washes the blood off his hands
but it never washes away
don't judge me you aint
seen enough
been enough
known enough
to judge much of anything
sleepwalk through your days
with your  diapers and handbills
inviting to the great change that'll never come
its all just a fashion statement
social tyrants protesting political tyrants
go find your green door
find out if its a lion or lamb

a thousand regretful wasted words
and i'm no closer to painting my masterpiece
of the soulful songbird gently sweeping aside
the weary cares of the hearts soul
no closer to giving tangible truths to
the heartfelt dream
no closer to giving life to the dreamers struggle
as she sings the song of redemption
i paint in a rush
the flurry of words that let fly
like the ****** white snow late september night
which gives the unexpected beauty
to the lush green that still clings to the landscape
now the words echo inner truths
illustrating what i want your heart to see
bound up in the promise of newborn late fall daybreak
bound up in the beauty only the dreamers can see
but still i linger here in the false start of a masterpiece
still with only the bare bones of what i wish i could say to you
i will stay here with my craft's labors
until i can give to you
such a sweet song
that would touch your soul
that would free the joy within you
that would show you how much you are loved

her dyed blonde hair
stood out starkly against the grey concrete
as me and my girl take up squating
for the momentary grease on the public step
as the alligators swim round the stoop
looking for the next strong-arm sucker
they keep time tapping one raised finger
on the humid air
she rolls up to us
and tosses herself down ontop of me
my girlfriend slides exasperated smile
and shrugs off the bleach blonde sticky fingers approach

the rest of the sticky fingers chase eachother
around the parking lot hoping  to make ground scores
off eachothers trash by numbers life in motion paintings
she chases my illusion
her dyed blonde hair tangles my thoughts
so i lead her to a quieter spot on the public steps
and settle her into her vibe

the diameter of her rig matches the close quater passageway
so she greases the way with a wall to wall smile
thats more scary than reassuring
and brushing back the bleach blonde
and tries once more to speak to my billfold
with her open shirt peeky-boo
i dont bother to say it but i woulda opened
up and spilled the greenage to keep her from folding
just outa keepin the peace
my girlfriend glares fifteen flavors of
get rid of this clown at me
so i dish dirt and bills to slide her on her way

i feel bad for her
she is our friend
but shes just to much of the gain game in her
to see that we have long since moved on
i cant play captain saveahoe
turned that caped crusader out to the history books
and im just looking to do my
morning breakfast circus
scrounge a coffee bean and a honey roll
my girl rolls a smoke
the tropical sun dances on sandy soil
we are a happy pair of clowns
and thats all that matters

fragments of sky
litter my thoughts like pieces of a shattered image
like scraps of burnt wood painted with
parts of some masterpiece scene
of a carnival in the town churchyard
with frolicking jesters and laughing children
a quaint country place where fiddle players
and young girls dance and sing
but such as this place is now no more than image
pressed into the fire consumed wood
no more than some forgotten place filled
with forgotten loves and forgotten lovers
i lay there in the ruins of the church
three hundred years on from the day it met its fate
where now a oak flourishes true and tall
such transient things such as our lives
have such beauty but fleet as birds to roost as
they disappear in the first burst of rain

fragments of sky perceived
in small spaces given by the leaves overhead
the dusty lens of my mind
churns over the unfolded event
like the lost man peering with confusion's
at the undecipherable map of clouds
shifting by the butterfly light wind
i sneak my way into a shaft of
the suns warm light
and await the birdsong to renew its
speech and thought
they look down on my reclining form
in grass below
ready to take wing should i leap to devour
but i will not rise
i am trapped by the changing mosaic of the sky
its simple tones belie the beauty it contains
grey over blue and white edges
such simple ever changing permanence in the sky
the cloud moves swiftly away from my minds grasp
and the birds remark to one another the
lateness of the day
i open heart and eyes
stand and walk away from open sky

the absurd
and the cynical
the elegant
and the beautiful
have all spoken here
voices raised in secretive hope
of being the one heard above all the rest
being the one to rise and soar
unfettered and unleashed
the night is filled with these
thousand fold whispers
these untold tales
clothed in the fine silks
and filthy rags
a ballroom dance of silent partners

the grand opera house
its silent hall so strange to tread
where hours before was filled with
the rushing stream of chatter
now echoes the hard shoes of the nightwatchman
the empty seats mute witnesses to the
loneliness of this passage of hours
the passages backstage
filled with absent bustling labours of
the arts lovers and
children of the arts lurid steamy affairs

the art itself
lingers all around this hallowed ground
it is more than the lines and scenes
of thouse who nobly take the stage
more than the curtains and lights
of the labours of its love
the art itself is a grand and
beautiful creature
a dignified and noble creature
hard taskmaster and passionate lover
for which time itself has no meaning
it is here in the wood of the stage
it is here in the bones of the world

the nightwatchman
treads this quiet place
and sees a face of the art few get to see
her quiet home while she rests
her repose before the curtain of
tomorrow is raised
before once again they all gather
for the art of live performance

hollow night
has sharp colors and
places deep where faces hide
places forgotten where even the hopeless dream
calling out along the night breeze
she held hope to hear answer that never came
she held out against fear and dared to dream
and then she found poems scrawled on the walls
a wordsmith who spoke to her soul
and she knew
she knew

opulent places of exquisite beauty
and desolate strip malls
with a single shopping cart in the empty
parking lot
she climbed in and he pushed  
her faster and faster
laughing free they
conquered the night and smiled
up at stars

two am in the summer is a palace
of the hopeful romantic
of the lonely shuffler dance seeking a song
and in the depths of hollow night
anyone even i can find a reason to endure
even i can seek a hand to hold

opulent palaces of the soul
and the magic is the heart that wanders
the hour with love in his or her mind

two am
and the suburbs are filled with distant sounds
the ever flowing highway
to the shuffle of the man carrying his home into
the depths of the night whistling a song of youth
the suburbs are moving in slow motion on the nightbrezze

two am and a shopping cart
lean down and kiss her
and in that moment love everything in the hope
and wonder you see in her eye
even a shadow like me could find life there
even a remnant like me could see a future there

winter day
the cold burns
the music in my brothers room is loud
so i walk downstairs and outside
to the garage
and stand silent in the bitterness of winter
angry that i cannot have loud music
angry that i am not my brother
my heart thunders in my chest as i read the written phrase
this was madness in its infancy
this twisted place
i called home
this paper thin disguise
that hides us all
from ourselfs
she looked at me
but i could not see her
i could only see what i could not feel
this paper thin disguise
ugly and distorted

night is the worst
so easy to believe that it'll never end
try and distract yourself
but the empty room presses in on you
no compromise with the lonely darkness we all carry
no half measures will suffice to rescue you from this living tomb
just please remember me in your darkest hour
just please know me in your hour of need
for my heart is with you always
no miles or years will change
nothing can undo
remember that my hand is always holding yours
remember that i have always loved you
even in your darkness
even in your madness
please remember me
that my heart will never leave your side
and know you have the strength to survive
to see our sunny day once again

it stopped raining after
some long hour had passed
the rain had simply faded like
shawled figure moving through the afterlife
just the signature of presence evaporating into the still air
like the quiet thunder of a doves wings in the evening shadow

a sense of walking the day down through its years
a child at dawn full of promise and wonder
a man full of strife and the heat of passions at noon
an old man gasping by the witching hour
see the day walk its life to the tomb
before the grand spectacle of night has finished

and the very damp ground was littered with leaves
pulled from their high towers and cast down by
the winds strong hand
dirt in clinging clumps decorate the once
vividly clean surface of her lawn chairs
she pecks at the debris with a rapid motion
wipe away the inglorious world with
her chatter is subtle but not unfriendly
as she offers tea
the long hour passes
as we instilled with small conversation watch
the overcast slowly dissipates
like her charm
it is fleeting
she at last asks about your day
with hands folded in her lap like two neat doves
fearfully waiting to fly in panic at such slight provocations

the rain left its signature on my life
both beauty and troubled thoughts gather beneath its wet canopy
all reach life in the waters of the world
all rise from child and fall to tomb
like rain falls back to the earth which birthed it
we all return to the soil
thick and rich loam full of the savaged remains of the fallen
and the seeds of the yet unborn

paper air planes made out
of tiny pieces of a torn up heart
they are red
but they have these streaks of black in them
it is a terrible blackness like rotting
thats unhappiness
it is poison
paper airplanes
tiny paper airplanes
he folds them quick and quiet at the stone wall
end of the driveway
at the bus stop where little old ladies dither away
long summer afternoons
tiny paper airplanes dogfight in the air
watch one go down in flames
made of the ripped up pieces of a broken heart
they are red
like fire trucks for the burning desire for her soft flesh
like alarm bells to warn off the unwary
they are red
tiny paper airplanes
one slips free
sees a cloud high up there where no paper airplane has dared
so far up in the wide open sky
none have ever even dreamed such a thing
he slips free and climbs
faster and higher
he climbs
free

shes wearing a jacket two sizes too big
and you can see she has been crying
but she smiles all shy and says shes fine
her voice little rough
but her hand is sure as it takes hold of yours
you know that no matter what
she wont let go

her obscure face in the cold bathroom
cigarette hangs limply from her
smooth lips
her words are few and spoken very softly
she asks if i like the girls room
her hand rests on mine
its so warm...too warm

she spent hours cutting paper into butterfly's
and taping them to the motel wall
all different colours
all different sizes

she removes her shirt and splashes water
on her bare skin
glistening in the buzzing overhead florescent light
there is a slight smile pasted on her face
eyes open a slit
i am worried about her
im not good at pretending
and she laughs at me a soft laugh
cups my face in one hand and tells me
thats shes fine
that if i wasn't her sisters man
she would jump my bones
i make her put her shirt back on

paper butterfly's
and her very human face
filled with tears
filled with fears

news paper pages
scatter along a ***** wind
some caught in fences separating
some free to climb into the forever of
deep blue sky pure sunshine
washed clean of the sins printed on its page
only photographs remain
a black & white image of the old man
feeding pigeons along the empty path
that lead him there

news paper pages
forever silently burning in a collapse of worlds
so old the smoke has died away
pages with masterful words written
never finding lips to uncage their meaning
a beauty of phrase that has never faded
a chain link barrier between what its
long dead author spoke eloquently
and the world disguised by years of dead dust
only photographs remain
a faded image of an old man
walking the sunset
a scattering of bread crumb's
stretching back along his trail
leading not into the living sky
forever shifting between dark and light
but into the dusty caverns of twilight
forever twilight

by candle light
he will pour over the things he never spoke
wishing only for a voice once more
a way to tell her
about all those yesterdays ago
the why's and whatnot's
that he fiddles with
like wooden toys ever more finely crafted
never to knowing play
never to escape the gathering dust

here he sits
in his comfy chair
tea and biscuits gone cold
and his lips ****** with gentle care
words written on discarded news paper pages
like bread crumbs scattered for
birds that never come
© 2017 mark john junor all rights reserved