"But - surely you're early?"

"No, dear; I'm always on time."

I wander through this clumsy mind,
Hither and thither, hoping to find -
What? Perhaps a thought, to pin
Upon a piece of paper, and then-
Questions? Answers? Puzzles? Truth?
Words to snare a lover? Food
For the soul? And yet, it seems
As I chase these paper dreams
They escape me, always out of reach.
For, though I try, I cannot leech
Upon myself. I must look elsewhere
For more solid ground, that will bear
These childish fantasies:
My castles in the air.

…is a rolling river running round and round
the ages, rough and ready, reaving
the unwary intellect and cleaving
raw the wounds of yesterday.

I’m rugged. I'm wrought. I’m wrecked.

A museum, a post office, a hoard of trinkets:
Think of all these things, and beyond them.
A room, vast as knowledge, filled clumsily
From top to tail with books and songs and poems and pictures;
Accoutrements of one life, lived.
All is quiet, save for the slow, sonorous ticking of time.
All is still.

Until:


A pale silver sliver of a
Jewel, locked loose in its box, starts to slip forward from
The chests and crates and jars and
Begins to roll, threads its winding way through
The labyrinth of shelves,
Picking up speed,
Brought back from beyond by
A ****** of song, a whisper of
Heartache…


… and drunk as a skunk I am roaming, reeling
Raw from a gig with the lads.
And as we chorus, cradling
Dreams and hearts and
Each other in our arms,
The night above is infinite
And the ground below is solid
And the starlight flows like our laughter
As we stumble home.


Time does not stand still. It never does. But in that moment, a
Measure of starlight, a ****** of song, come together and
Crystallise.
And deep in the recesses of the room
A pale silver sliver of a jewel
Is catalogued, logged, noted and filed
Before being locked away, for who knows how long…


…and then I am back. The gem once more
Is in its rough box, the key in the lock
While on the radio, a song ends.
All is quiet, save for the ticking of the clock
And the scratching of my pen.
All is still.

I recall counting the
crooked lines that ran the length of your palm,
noting how each and every one
ran on and on and on
before petering out into crosshatch
and creases.

Remember when I came to yours,
that first time?
We watched an inconsequential film,
made inconsequential small talk
as we lay on that  
rough-lined sofa of yours.
I stared into your bright-blue eyes
as you glanced up at mine
(murkier, sea-floor brown tinged with green -
“Harry”, you called me, jokingly)
and we kissed
because at the time
it seemed of consequence.

Later, we petered out somewhat
(creased and crosshatched as we were),
but even now,
as I trace the lines of my palm,
I can’t help but feel that
something that day
was of consequence.

As of yet, untitled.

“Hometime!”
The hue and cry is raised
and with it, I am gone, losing
my winding way down leafy lanes that
glitter cold and golden, soft and sapphire
in the crispest spring.
Down pen, down paper, down tools!
- the streets are much more tempting
with their silver promises made
in the emerald afternoon glow.
I huff and pant (cheeks
ruby-red) round the
rolling hills that hide
the treasures of this city…

…(looking back, older - wiser? -
I realise that I
would give it all away.
All the coins and chests and
jewels and gold and crowns
and sceptres and stars and coronets
that you could care to mention -
surrender my kingdom
for just one more day:
One more afternoon of youth,
carelessly wasted
in the cold and golden streets
of yesterday)…

…But that
comes later
and this
is now;
and I
am young
and
golden
in my promise.

Cut my throat and
stab my stomach and
kick me in the ***** and
gouge out my eyes and
drain my blood and
tear open my ribcage and
peel apart each sticky-red vein and
pour molten lead down my throat and
lacerate my skin with knives and
break my bones and
stop my heart all while
pouring salt, vinegar, acid on my wounds but

never,
never,
never

tell me that I don’t know
how it feels to
hurt.