Life provides the contours.
Poets provide the shading and colors.

r ~ 23Mar14

I came to see the casket
An open heavy thing
And what I saw inside was
Decomposition's hymn

A song without a spirit
That never should have died
Remember when you killed it
Remember how you cried

The reoccurring nightmare
That shook you from your sleep
Had made its way outside of
The consciousness you'd keep

The ceremony's over
And now I must confess
My person is the coffin
The coffin is my chest

My couch still whispers
the trailing ends of a few
of your sentences and I
can hear them from my
bed in the next room.
I've tried to block them
out but hands and pillows
and quilts can only do
so much and eventually
the words seep into my
dreams and make me
believe that this will all
work itself out in time.
I need new furniture.

He found a boundless sea inside  a diamond,
she keeps close to her soul, love pulsates in that ruby precious.
She wears an all -knowing smile, so ravishing,
when he gazes in to it, through her clear blue eyes.

He has seen memories that  quietly rest in her hive,
come searching for him, honeybees seeking the drops,
sweetness of the past inebriating at any time later.


We are wishes perennial of the people of yore,
who never ceased to love us
even after leaving the earth, for realms higher
echoes we are, from labyrinths of time
relayed from the timeless realm,
that appears after counting every universe existing there.

O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.

A flawless red curve of
Seductive lips
Your bold tongue
On the cusp of mine
I savor your words
Reckless declarations
Breathed down my throat
Slashing my soul
A wound that won’t heal
Exposed to the memory of
*******
Memories that make it my ruin
The way you wrenched my heart
Racked my mind
Molested my soul
The desolation you left me with
When you were done

I look for Pink
To comfort and inspire
My emotional essence
You will see if you
Look into my eyes.

Wouldn’t it be great
a decade from now
when it’s bills, insurance,
married life,
to wander into Waterstone’s
and go ‘hold on a minute,
I sat next to him!’

At the counter we could say
‘Oh, I knew the author,
uni days and all that’
as we fish around
for a ten quid note
thinking ‘hang on,
I should have a signed copy!'

We’ll call ourselves
intellectual,
scrawl sonnets in cafes,
sup pints, smoke cigars,
proclaim Seamus’s work
‘just... just… it just speaks
to me you know?’

And we’ll remember
that teapot,
those guys coming in late,
dishing out slips of paper
like a croupier with cards
and still wonder
if what we’ve written is *magic.