Each hill climbed means an obstacle overcome,
behind each hill is another,
behind the next is a mountain
of ravines and crags, covered with fine
snow; when overcome, the peak transcended,
life becomes just a pleasant downward
snowboard into the sun.
When someone dies their thoughts
Die with them,
Their bones absorb their words-
After a summer others cease to remember,
We fade and then are gone.


Each person is replaced:
Vast cities shrink becoming grass-beaten mounds,
Shining cultures wither,
Their intricate palaces shatter,
Temples decay under interminable suns,
Religions flounder, sacrificed to time.

Philosophies expire like sunlight
When night falls, wise words unravel,
Tortured by inconsequence,
Decay dripping from each syllable
Like uncollected wind-driven rubbish
Running down a lonely street.

In the alley the dog howls,
Amongst the discarded boxes the
Raven sings.
I kissed my true love
Beneath the gurning sun,
I caressed my true love,
Until the sun was gone.
I planted seeds in my true love’s garden,
Employed my eager spade all day long,
I dug and dug in my true love’s garden
Until the planting was done.
Each seed became a flower,
Each flower became a sigh,
Pressed into her languid bower
As the night drifted slowly by.
In the morning, refreshed by the new sun,
In my true love’s garden bright
My work was finally done,
And I left with a horticulturalist's delight.
Before me the monster grew
In the stippled light
Dappled blue
It was an interesting sight.

A wondrous uncompromising
Dark hue
Its features had a disconcerting
Temporary feel. Nose and ears fixed by glue

And where his mouth should have
Been was a blue suede shoe,
And in place of eyes grave-
Stones inscribed with the names of no one I knew.

Still, he was very polite
For such a badly-hewn
Creature of the night.
Crafted as if from ancient stone,

He quietly broke my neck
With a pleasant-enough smile
And I heard it crack
Dying, deeply impressed by his style.
My golden tears flow, flow quickly
like flames in a drought-
spreading in gathering fury.
Sinking like rainbows in the sea.
My golden tears last a lifetime,
but bring no wealth to me.

I grabbed gold from the sun
one day and concealed
it in my brain. its
light created ectasy and made
me insane.

I took it out periodically
and admired it, lying supine
in my hand, the gold
would spin around both
shrink and expand,

but the gold although it glistened brightly
brought no love to me,
dripping like shimmering lava
circling and encircling
it hardened before my sight
growing harder as it cooled
it only revealed the night.

I loved it like sculpture, like beautiful paintings
on my wall,
I touched it as it shone,
as it took me for a fool.
I wiped my eyes with its fury
my eyes resembled tears,
golden tears that flow so quickly
down, down the empty years.
I crept into my soul in the profoundest night:
where spectral owls honked and hooted in fickle fright
and tongues rasped out sihouettes-
deepening shadows crawled from dirty mouths,
and love slunk around tattered skirts
in imitation of fungi growths:
paper covered me from head to shin
when I let the shadows thin fingers in!
words assembled like building blocks
men in high-heels/boys in frocks.  
                         In the morning, the sun
scoured my skin. I leant on the devil, standing alone,
                          he flipped me a coin
like he'd just tossed me a biscuit and a blood-red bone,
               as I whimpered into the mirror's torn
shimmering shafts of innocence, where beauty assaulted the black-eyed crone
for salutory afternoon tea,
the pretty boy charging the ugly boy an extortionate fee.

and the devil sang in the metronomic gloom
of departed joys.
I returned to my room,
playing with the boys-
coming intensely as the ice displayed
the solitary if fashionable route to Hades.
.
The old man looked up
into the rain-swollen, cloud-broken, time-tossed
sky.
Sitting down again on the park bench
smoothed by a million previous
lonely, plump backsides-smoking a joint,
thinking of a riotous past he stared
at his memories-

a jocund boy, a quiet teenager privately lusting,
years like trailing smoke-
a husband, family man his worries growing into
deep-set wrinkles fashioned on nothing-
the sun leaning on him, the moon smiling cynically,
as he dwindled into dust.

Who did he make love to? Why did he? Why did
he bother? the thick bloated flames of fickle loins
and trophies for his mind.
Nothing in the shaded recess, nothing looms,
in his pirate's, crow's, magpie's soul-
an old man in his final hour
beating around for husks.
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