I think of
church’s and trains,
I think of your
interpretation of the
truth, I think of going
to someplace mysterious,
I think of quiet rooms with
sixty watt bulbs softly
swaying above empty
bottles and scattered poetry,
I think of the city birds
scaring the crows, I think
of Wagner and the death of
young soldiers, I think of
naked ghosts in the garden.
I sleep into the late afternoon,
I open the window to smell
the rain, I watch the winter
trees undress -
I wait for the storm …
Clay.M

Give me a dark room
with a seductive view
of this smoky city,
let me hear the soft
blue jazz spill from your
open window, let me
watch as you move so
slowly through the
naked light, let me
question your intimacy.
Is there a sadness in your
voice, a loneliness like mine,
can I see your complete
intangible beauty before
I close these tired eyes.
I will hold out my hand
for the crumbs of your
love, your confession
will be sweet and painfully
pure, your sexuality
a portrait of god,
your language will be
scattered pieces of truth,
your war a fierce illusion of
strength, your poetry so
pure so perfectly unique,
your beauty so effortlessly
complete …
Clay.M

I have spent days
beside you and a
thousand nights
alone, dreaming
on the edge of
spineless books
too afraid to jump!
now I find myself,
drinking, dancing,
laughing with the
forgotten writers,
wrapped up tightly
with all their solitary
words, words scribbled
in relatable misery, I have
fallen in unrecognisable
love with their loss,
their lust, their insane
style of adventure, their
relentless drunkenness,
their sorrow, their suffering,
their almost unbelievable
grief …
Clay.M

Now that you are here
with your bracelets and
your chains, now that you
are here with your gypsy
cards and your secret charts,
now that you are here with
your waves of midnight hair
and collection of fallen stars.
I have seen a carnival of
******, I have seen corridors
of wasted lives. Now I hide
in the mountains with my
hatred and my hunting knife,
now I hide in the mountains
with my wild eyes and my
books about the wilderness …
Clay.M

I want to grow old
and die in the sun,
I want to walk through
a lush vineyard with
plump ripe fruit,
I want to lie beside a
river listening to small
birds doing small bird
things, I want to watch
marshmallow clouds
pass beneath a happy
blue sky. Don’t lay me
down on some
unsympathetic bed,
where my mind will
become stagnant, where
fond memories will fade
into the obscenities of
old age. Wrap me up in
the arms of my love,
send us way out into the
splendid sea, let the salty
air caress our skin, let the
waves wash over our
crippled bodies, let us
remember when we were
wide eyed and beautiful
so - innocent
so - young …
Clay.M

No one wants to read
your pretty little poems
she said,
drink the **** yellow ink
from the cowards pen,
write about the early
morning ****** puking
in the gutters, drunks in
alleyways wrapped in
coffee stained news papers
snoring with the crack heads
and sewer rats, dreaming of
long legs and two dollar wine.
Give me music that makes me
cry, give me bombs on city streets
a young soldiers missing legs,
give me the sound of an insane
saxophone from forty stories high.
Give me death - lust - fire!
give me back the hum drum
rhythm of the beat poets -
for gods sake tell it how it is
give me the awful truth
after all that’s all there is …
Clay.M

It’s 3am again,
the old guy next door
turns his radio on,
Barber cuts through
the silence with every
tortured string, he types
his poetry until the paper
walls weep, I listen to the
rhythm of the keys as the
gentle breeze makes the
curtains dance with the
sad symphony, as the
early morning sun throws
its lonely shadows onto
the pure white sheets
I think of war and peace …
Clay.M