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I wanted to know the sighs
Of mercy.  On the bed she lied,
Laid bare in the shocking light
That twitches, as she rolls
I hover and cage her in question,
With moist eyes, abandoned
By loves interrogations,
I stab at the untruths and confusions.
I wanted to hear the supplicant
Murmur of indolence and shame.
With windy caresses I break
Her arms, she ropes me red
In tangled hair and I struggle
To let go.  I wanted to taste
The twin defeats of victory
And indifference, when in the light
Of darkest night there are cries of yes
And no and false accusations,
There is consuming pain and excruciating
Pleasure and as we squirm
And seethe, she teases,
Goading me and then,
I loose it.
.
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In straps, of wire saplings,
Becomes one wild rose.
Alone in the dawn,
A solitary crow knows
That this is beauty,
Greater than his own
Shiny black robe.
Impossibly regal
Red as a scarlet wail,
A siren, amongst all
The greens and yellows
Of a meadow, of the entire
World, is the rose, above those,
Especially the bleak, envious
Crow, latched to a branch
As scaly and gnarled as his soul,
Blacker than eternal night,
Beside the shining light
Of the rightly charmed
Wild rose,
Alone.

             Sorry is the crow—
Most of all unmatched, strikingly
To long flame of chalk faced moon,
Rides in airs, misbegotten, makes
Desolate cries, of wounding caws,
Self inflicted, so, somehow seems
Unalive, tarred, undead as smoke,
His fettered, black, unfeathering
Eyes.  Not like the blooming spark
And flash of the stunning, runner,
Unbeaten, indomidible, shocking,
Wild rose, unmired by bramble,
Wood nor motley thorn of bush,
A star of life, razor cut, blistering,
Free, this spirited, ****** heart,
Set, a rage, on jagged leaf.

In tangled straps of green wire saplings,
A Rose is even more a rose, next to crow.
.
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Out of Greek myth, she
Glowed at the party and proved,
Stories I had told.
.
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Before the wings and spring of words,

Were cradle-held in a cloud of sleep,

Soft footfalls to hear ourselves turning

And ever new dreams were lofty keys,


We could not see the frost branching

And winter never was, nor winds cold,

In our temple eyes, the sun crowning

Imbued visions, fine as woven gold,


Draped in silks so rare, spun spinning,

To hear the birds sing in ears blossom,

For the very first time, true beginnings

And the flower's colour never forgotten,


All is mourning now— song, sings singer,

To morn, to wake, dream, dreams dreamer.
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So many words between us—
The caustic breech of abatement, ruin
Runs atonal, in recitals of indifference,
How even the ****** birds now sound
Discordant and rain crushes as it falls,
Ballistic.

The pinprick stars are merely eyes
Undraped to the worn soul's veil
And gorgon time roils setting our feet
In the crust of wishes and delusions
Kept.  

The bullet riddled skies in absence
Of colour are but particulates of lime
To the moonless night.  Words have no
Eyes, they can only finger.

O the sorrows of the untouched—
The cruelty of the sightless and bent blind,
Drab vermillion stars felled like forced tears.
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Seán Mac Falls Dec 2021
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Young bodies writhing
As willow trees undulate
In the moaning breeze
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Seán Mac Falls Dec 2021
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Ravens scatter outside my pain.
A throw of die against the winters

First snow and the window needs cleaning,
Maybe later.  The running glass

Is watery and after I make love
With you, I wake to the severing light

That is always silent.  The phone
Does not ring, as my cat has told me

Many times, let us play she says,
The way it used to be under

The red wood beams on the hard wood
Floors, you would cry in that vacancy.

Though we lived in a one bedroom
Unfurnished, I called it a dance hall

And we danced silly tangos.  I tried
To lift you then, but now outside

My window, ravens dervish and never
Fly in formation, under blue mountain.
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