Now the day is gone
and all I did was dream
I listened to the sound
of the day that awful ring
that calling that dreadful
pushing and pulling
inside my dreamy mind
and this body doesn’t
want to move
I think it’s depressed
or something far worse
I saw my reflection
in shallow water
that cruel shave
of pointlessness
I heard a knock at
the door and I know it
wasn’t you
because you are gone
like this day is gone
I wrote a poem today
but it had no spark
it was dull like a
lifeless star
and you know
it was this one …
Clay.M

May this room
bring you the
light of creativity
may the poetry
of your journey
be nothing short
of extraordinary
travel lightly
in the footsteps
of wonderment …
Clay.M

Someday I will find
a magic mountain,
and I will stay with
one million moths
rebelling against the
light, my wanderlust
will be completely
satisfied, the nova will
sustain its sublime
intensity, I will walk
with my mind swirling
in majestic mystery,
every thought, every
action will be spontaneous!
and it will be absolutely
splendid in every category.
Someday I will find a
magic mountain, I will
drink wine with the gods
and we will smile for eternity …
Clay.M

She was a twenty something
art student with just enough
cleavage to allure my attention,
she spoke with an elegant whisper,
her hair resembled a roosters ****
although her red framed glasses
complimented the style brilliantly.
I have read all your poetry she said,
you are so openly honest about
prostitution, drunkards in ******
strip clubs, washed up poets in
drug infused jazz joints, the cruelty
of bull fighting and oh my god
*******!. You must be confusing
me with someone else I said. I went
back to my lonely room and wrote
this down …
Clay.M

I have seen grown
men throwing stones
into still rivers
rivers that are
tired of running
they watch small birds
feast on smaller
living things
they breath out a
steady stream of
blue sadness
they sit in cars
reading Kerouac
looking up at
long naked legs
they have outlived
their fathers
idea of youth
they have played
the puzzle of
insolvable love
they are lost in
quiet rooms
they ask her
politely to leave
they wait for the
dust to settle …
Clay.M

I step outside
I stand beneath
the cold blue stars
I listen to my
own heart beating
I feel it pound the
breath of my love
the night air brings
a familiar sting
there are no corners
in this sacred space
I study the movement
of anxious leaves
as they desperately
hold on to the
midnight trees
they allow me to
believe in this solitude
like it’s some kind of truth
something spiritual
something intangible
as the sleeping flowers
lean towards tomorrow
as the waves of emotion
recede into the shadows
sorrow is no longer
a stranger …
Clay.M

Some days
I stare at the sun
I study its minor
imperfections
I see the beauty
of its scars
I feel the depth
of its existence
some days
I like being sad
I paint my heart
in the darkest blue
I welcome sorrow
I hold it in my chest
like a deep breath
like imperfect poetry
I find a quiet place
far away from the
heavy machinery
and the screech
of grinding wheels
I embrace isolation
I choose to call her
my closest friend …
Clay.M

I love the
sound of new
beginnings
the way it
echoes with
possibilities …
Clay.M

If you want -
you can find them here
all those out of shape
poets and writers,
stooping to ungodly
behaviour, drinking
with demons, wrestling
with angels, scrounging
for words on broken tables
trying to make them fit,
words like - honesty - beauty,
- *** - hunger - words that hold
you for a while then let you
slip - unsatisfied. There is a
sickness in this line of work
an inexcusable existence,
a drowning madness,
a longing that leaves you
feeling unqualified. If you
want - you can find them
here, within these hours that
never sleep. Now I know
why Hemingway wrote
standing up …
Clay.M

I was in a bar outside
the gates of Pompeii,
it was already morning
and as the curtains began
to close on the moon and
the stars were turning off
their lights, she lit a cigarette
and as the smoke swirled
in the sound of mysterious
jazz I thought of Vesuvius
looking over us like some
viscous god. And between
the reflection of midnight
drunkards and broken hearts,
I didn’t know if it was the way
she held her glass or the way
she put it to her lips that made
me think she knew something
about love that I did not. She
looked at me and said something
in Italian then she looked away
crossed her legs and lit another
cigarette, I guess she said
where are you going?
I whispered Palermo …
Clay.M

When the street lights
have gone out
and most people are asleep
all wrapped up tight in their
delicate dreaming
a fallen angel brings me
fragile and broken words
aren’t they beautiful
she whispers
don’t show them
to anyone
if you do they will see
who you really are
they will know
every little secret
that you keep hidden
in your perfect silence
they will know that
you’re one of the kind ones
the wolves will know
your weakness …
Clay.M

I am somewhere
in the distance
in that place you can
no longer reach
I watch the dust dance
in a stream of
yellow light
as the shadows shift
they become obsolete
like tiny deaths
I wish I could learn to
laugh again like
mad children
I wish I could whisper
the pleasant dreams of
fallen angels
as the moon hangs in
half light
there is a sadness in
your voice a loneliness
like mine
from your lips drift
a thousand sorrows
maybe if we close our
eyes the world won’t
seem so sad
we will meet beneath
the covers of
untouchable love
we will make our way
to the wild coast
looking out across
the endless mad ocean
we will watch the
ghosts rising like smoke
above the angry waves
we will hear the heavy
breath of an angry god
and if I hold your hand
without a single word
do not be alarmed by
my awkwardness
I can not compete with
the poetry of waves …
Clay.M

When my thoughts
fall like heavy rain upon
the blue birds tired wings
and the ice cracks into
countless splinters upon
the quiet pool of simplicity
I hear the angels weep
like distressed children
I see tall buildings sway
with the weight of whispering
I gather my temporary things
my breath my life
my pen and paper
I make my way to the
pure white sands of forgiveness
looking out across the
endless mad ocean
I pretend to be a writer
I cannot compete with
the poetry of waves …
Clay.M

The first sign of
daylight dissolved
my good intentions
nothing at all
seamed to shine
every thought fell
into dark water
the sun was
painted grey
my dreams were cold
as distant mountains
and when the death
Lillie's bloom from your
lonely heart and your
love only hears
the cello cry
when your angel walks
with wings of stone
and your daffodils
want to die
meet me here
beneath the
gun metal sky
and you know
everything will
be just fine
follow me
we’ll walk away
our sadness
in the rain …
Clay.M

My mind drifts
across the sea
to the sharp edge
of the world
where the sun
sleeps peacefully
with its
splendid poetry
I search for truth
like it’s something
I can find in the
last slice of light
in between is where
the secrets lie
in between the
empty hands of time
between your life
and mine
it’s written across
the night sky
between the stars
between the dark
spaces in our mind
close your eyes
I’ll find you here …
Clay.M

Sometimes I sit
on this mountain
avoiding my reflection,
until my mind becomes
a mirror of memories,
I am close enough to
the sun to call her a friend.
Mixed emotions swirl
in the night sky as they
always have done,
at times the stars look sad
like distant cities and the
moon with its many faces
so desperately wanting
to be loved. I will stay here
until the angry wind blows
away these heavy clouds,
and my beard has grown
long and grey, I will walk
down this mountain wild eyed!
enlightened, insane!
like a bible story
like a wounded animal
washed clean - free of all sin,
ready to congregate again
in the warm embrace of
simple poetry …
Clay.M

I will sit here beneath
the warmth of the sun
I will listen to the slow
movement of clouds
I am comfortable in the
way that time always
leaves me behind
and when I grow old
I hope I grow into
some kind of stranger
in a sleepy village at the
foot of a white mountain
where I’ll write poetry
about wild birds and the way
love never promised to stay ...
Clay.M

Sometimes I keep
the curtains closed
I don’t want to see
the day or listen
to its violence,
I plant flowers in
dark corners,
I plant flowers where
the old ones have
passed sway,
I know there is a
reason for soft music,
I welcome the gentle
waves of consolation,
I hear poetry in the
slow movement of time …
Clay.M

Some days don't
want to be loved
as the clouds move
with the dead of grey
my mind shifts within
a mist of questions
they are written across
the night sky between
the stars and my
blinking eyes in those
dark and lonely spaces
of the heart
some days don't
want to be loved
with the last slice of light
I'll feel the
sharpness of its edge
I'll drink wine with the
anxious gods and the
ghostly strangers in this
mirror of memories
I’ll find words that are
worth remembering …
Clay.M

I saw your reflection
in the window
your beauty stole the
breath from my lungs
now I have fallen like
a stone into the ruins
I am tangled by the web
that you have spun
and I followed you
in the rain
somewhere in the
middle of Spain
like a faithful and
discreet slave your
love I forever crave
you softly sway your
hips to the music
I hear a gypsy violin
you lick your lips with
the taste of tequila
the moonlight it
throws your silhouette
I saw you in the arms
of your lover I could
never compete with
his charm
I swallow my
last sip of wine
I raise my glass to
a thousand stars
and I followed you
in the rain
somewhere in the
middle of Spain
like a faithful and
discreet slave
your love I
forever crave …
Clay.M

You can
deactivate your mind
you can numb your senses
you can plant flowers
where the weeds have died
you can look out across
your summer vines
and smile at the good work
your hands have done
but deep down you know
that the sun will turn to butter
and will no longer be able to
push away the heavy rain
you begin to listen to the
ugly cry of the black crow
and you see the wings of
small birds becoming tired-
tired of fighting against
the angry wind
you sit down and you feel sad
and it is your sadness-
you own it-
you take a deep breath
you hold it for a while
you let it go
you feel happy again
happy that you are
still able to feel...
Clay.M

Somehow
the first sign of
daylight dissolved
my good intentions,
nothing at all seemed
to shine, every thought
was filtered through
dark water, the sun was
painted grey, my dreams
were cold as distant
mountains, I washed my
face in the silent river,
I ignored its imperfections
I ignored my own.
I listen to the stories
of the forest,
I walked away my sadness
in the rain …
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

Give me something
solid to lean upon,
a dream to unlock
a thousand variables,
let me hear the battle
in your voice, the
theatrical expression
of your vengefulness,
let me wash the war
paint from your
pure - white - skin,
let me read your
obscene letters of lust,
let me witness the
sacrifice of your touch,
let me feel the absence
of your love,
let me miss you,
let me leave it as it is
- unfinished …
Clay.M

There is a blue bird
at my window
trying to show me
its pretty blue wings
trying to sing me
its pretty songs
can’t you see
my hair is grey
my heart is black
if I could turn the
hands of time
I would turn them back
I would love you more
hate myself less
fly away now
let me drink my
morning tea
fly away now
go and be with
all the other
pretty things …
Clay.M

I am a writer
I write novels
I have no time
for silly poetry
she said
her eyes were a
shallow blue
her face was
pretty although
failed to show
expressions of
sincerity
her skin was
lightly tanned
her legs
flawlessly slender
her hands were
manicured
cold and lifeless
just like her writing …
Clay.M

When my mind starts
to wander and my eyes
refuse to blink, I travel
down the endless road
of a thousand dead poets,
I hold onto every blue note,
spilling ink across an indigo
sky, give me soft jazz that
complements the rain,
give me a conversation with
beauty that makes me blush.
Maybe we should just leave
she said, drive for miles into
the heart of the bleeding sun,
throw our dead love into the
defeated sea, get tattooed by
insane gypsies with missing teeth!
sleep beneath the shooting stars
to the sound of vicious violins!
we can change our names to
something unpronounceable,
become spontaneous,
become obsolete …
Clay.M

I walk upon this
tragic earth, and
as my bones grow
weary, I rest beneath
a fig tree, I watch the sky
sacrifice another sun.
I listen to the wind sing
its songs of the mountains
and the sea and how the
soldiers and the sailors
are lost without their love.
I dream of mandolins and
the movement of clouds.
I dream of white villages
and genuine smiles. I feel
the distance between your
breath and mine. I continue
this search for authenticity,
I hear the fig tree whisper,
sleep now there is no need
to feel afraid …
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

I have my
half written poems
I have this blue window
to look through
when I’m lonely
I ignore its
invitation
I sit on this bed
like it’s the edge
of the world
the white sheets
sleep behind me
like restless angels
I scribble words
I call it poetry
I write the word
love in black ink
and the walls
become irritable
deep blue shadows
swallow my room
of souvenirs
I want to hear the
sound of violins
I want to hear the
sadness in your voice
become clear
I need a pleasant dream
I need something solid
to lean upon
I need something to
sooth these
shaking hands …
Clay.M

I have my books my records
my half written poems
I have this blue window
to look through when
I’m lonely
from this place I can see
the sun smiling
I know it will rise and fall
religiously so I ignore
its invitation
maybe I’ll feel better
in a new morning
less wounded less detached
less strange
maybe this battle in my voice
will fade into a soft belief
I search for words that will
hold you for a while
then let you slip
words like truth
like love
like the breath of a
thousand stories
like any other
untouchable thing …
Clay.M

I saw her again today
in that old jazz club
on the corner
the sun was spilling
in like honey
her legs crossed within
the golden light
her scarf was like a
lonely flower blooming
red in a graveyard
she was writing a letter
or a poem or just
playing around
with words
she was sipping
white wine
her smile was
hidden like a secret
she tied back her hair
her eyes caught me staring
they were beautifully sad
overflowing with a
thousand questions
I stood there
too dumb to answer …
Clay.M

I step outside
to greet the day
my arms stretched out
across a lemon field
I breathe the spring
air into my lungs
filling up and letting go
I listen to the
symphony of birds
I watch the butterfly’s
dance with the dandelions
as my eyes blink in the
yellow light
I keep my precious things
caged within my chest
as my mind becomes clear
and the wind has grown tired
I am without prejudice
my arms are free to move
my legs are able to run
I catch my breath
I chase these words
I call it poetry
it is here that I write
it is here that I am
immune to the
sickness of the world …
Clay.M

I heard you moved away
to somewhere warmer
where memories won’t
scar a wounded heart
I heard you’re writing
more often in a
positive light
I heard you found
faith in the solitude
of the desert
I heard you are still
drinking our favourite
red wine
I heard your father
took his own life
I’m sorry for hurting you
I was stained with the
selfishness of youth …
Clay.M

The poem
yes the poem
it is a
fragile thing
it can lose your
attention
it can lose
its rhythm
Its beat
it can lose
its way
in the art of
simplicity …
Clay.M

You left in a
search for truth
you left clean
without a trace
traveling further
into an endless
dream
your collection
of memories
exploding in a
sunburnt sky
with so many miles
between us now
I wonder how
you have changed
I hope you will
remember me when
you finally make it
to the coast
sincerely …
Clay.M

I walk upon the earth
I pretend that I own it,
I see an army of ants
attacking a Mantis,
I watch it accept defeat,
it is silent in its prayer,
it is crippled in its faith,
my empathy is tested,
I whisper to its god,
give it a quick death!
but its god does not listen
it is slow and torturous,
I hold my breath as the
Mantis weeps. I see the
last leaf fall from a
winter Wisteria it is
naked and boney, it has
become ugly
in its nature …
Clay.M

When the stars
have faded like
tired candles
and the morning
is painted in a
splash of grey
we will hold each
others hand like
lonely orphans
and in the mist of
every hour we will
grow older
and we will know
when the moon
covers its face
it has seen too much
when the ocean is
sleeping like a field
of a million stars
these walls call me
a stranger
when the wild flowers
are trembling
and the old buildings
are tired of standing
when the morning
makes a fist
destroying all things
delicate
these walls call
me a stranger
when the clouds
undress the moon
and the trees stand
naked in the subtle light
when the thin white
curtains dance
these walls call me a
stranger …
Clay.M

I’m lost she said
crossing her legs while
lighting a cigarette
I pour her a drink
and wipe the mascara
from her cheek
there was an unmistakable
sadness in her eyes
she used words that
would hold you for a
while then let you slip
you only feel this in the
last breath of your love
she said as the curtains
danced with the wind
like torn sails
there was a soft grey
blanket thrown over
the sun and she was like
a portrait of smoke
there was a red thread
that connected our spirits
there was a distant
hum of sad melodies
so much can happen
between the space of songs
and I don’t want to miss it …
Clay.M

Give me back
all the things I
left behind
the friendships
I never formed
the hatred
the hunger
the love I threw
away blindly
the sleepless
lonely nights
tormented by
the fear of god
give me back all
the days I spent
dreaming in
restless desire
give me back
my strength
my birth
my mothers
warm smile …
Clay.M

I happened to find
myself longing for
some kind of change
you were telling
me this in that little
cafe on the corner
your words fell softly
through the hum of
café conversations
your eyes were left
searching in a
maze of emotions
you wore a poets frown
that I could not ignore
there’s no easy way to say
there’s no easy way to grieve
somethings that you love
sometimes leave
the thread between us
now is broken …
Clay.M

I have been around
long enough to know
that the world is unwell,
and in the shade of an
ugly grey I have seen
high buildings holding
the warmth of the sun,
I have seen birds
trying to be birds in the
middle of dead cities,
I have seen places
that have grown tired
of the sound of gunfire,
and as the playgrounds
remain silent within the
fields of sleeping rust,
I will listen to these
walls as they call me a
stranger, I will leave
with a hundred heavy
dreams in my cart,
I will search amongst
the ruined cities for
something good, I will
continue to wander …
Clay.M

I understand
the language
of sad mornings
I understand the
turning wheels
of cruel madness
I understand
because I have
learnt from the
poets the teachers
of sorrowful things
and through this
thin grey light
I can see the
ghost of her
flying like a
painted bird
I rest amongst the
scattered leaves
I listen to the
weeping of swans …
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

Sometimes I sit and wait
for morning, maybe it will
be different this time,
maybe the sun will refuse to rise,
maybe if I fall asleep I will
miss the continual darkness,
maybe if I close my eyes
for just a moment
the world won’t seem so sad …
Clay.M

I will sit here beneath
the warmth of the sun
I will listen to the slow
movement of clouds
I am comfortable in the
way that time always
leaves me behind
and when I grow old
I hope I grow into
some kind of stranger
in a sleepy village at the
foot of a white mountain
where I’ll write poetry
about wild birds and the way
love never promised to stay ...
Clay.M

As I search this anxious city for
something pure something good
I carry a hundred heavy dreams
I don’t mind when the sadness hits
see I’ve been drinking with the poets
they follow me down every street
I rest beneath the crayon blue sky
I see my heroes scratching their
bellies behind the sun
I see the threads of my mothers
summer dress I see the ghost of her
flying like a painted bird
I try to hold her like a secret
I untangle this mind of loose strings
maybe if I remain silent I’ll become
obsolete maybe if I write words that
are worth remembering I’ll feel complete
I listen to the wind whispering apologies
maybe they can sell my dreams in the
market place with the cattle and the
rattling of chains I think about quite rooms with naked shadows in every lonely corner I think about small birds crying out for the crumbs of your love and if you can hear me I wish that you knew me
when I was still kind …
Clay.M