I waste myself for you, oh page.
I battle sleep and demons and
Face what I would otherwise
Curtail, for the simple act of
Filling you up.

I trap everything that I am
Within you, page. A web for my
Foggy thoughts, dew caught like
Tears, crystallising the opaque
Within my life.

You are the recipient in my mind,
Oh page. Brain chatter forced into
Structure, a soldier. Almost a child.
You **** me like an alpha, my borrowed
Pleas at your feet.

And so I tread you like infant snow.
Each print a scar, each word a brittle
**** stem. Your silence a truth beyond
My own and whatever I say
Will pollute it.

So I walk round in circles. Tiptoes
Like sparrows, piecrust shapes in
The snow. I walk in circles to not
Carve a path. To hide my meaning.

Don’t follow me home.

You are carried in a basket,
Like a carcase from the shambles,
To the theatre, a cockpit
Where they stretch you on a table.

Then they bid you close your eyelids,
And they mask you with a napkin,
And the anaesthetic reaches
Hot and subtle through your being.

And you gasp and reel and shudder
In a rushing, swaying rapture,
While the voices at your elbow
Fade--receding--fainter--farther.

Lights about you shower and tumble,
And your blood seems crystallising--
Edged and vibrant, yet within you
Racked and hurried back and forward.

Then the lights grow fast and furious,
And you hear a noise of waters,
And you wrestle, blind and dizzy,
In an agony of effort,

Till a sudden lull accepts you,
And you sound an utter darkness . . .
And awaken . . . with a struggle . . .
On a hushed, attentive audience.

He creeps in,
Makes no sound.

I feel him,
As he exhales his crystallising cold breath,
Cold to the touch yet warm.

He holds me,
Helps me,
Saves me.

His blue icy lips gentle kiss,
My neck is frozen,
My spine it shivers.

A tear flowing down my cheek,
Slows as it solidifies,
To cold, icy dust.

I'm stagnant,
Immobile,
Scared.

He slowly moves,
Icicles are forming on my chin,
As tears flow.

My eyes are shut but I feel his blistering, cold breath,
As it embraces my face,
I can breathe.

His lips move closer,
I can feel it.

They meet mine in perfect alignment,
And then it was blue,
As they joined mine we formed a lilac sea,
Cold to the touch,
Inviting me in.

My eyes opened,
He was gone,
Again,
I was alone.

Burning daylight inside incense sticks
meditation tricks in a psychobabble circle
pull what is mine into myself let the rest
                                                                    go

flow  
     as streams of vinegar placation
lazy over the surface of those
             worn-torn-skin-leather rocks.
it's over and you barely felt the drop, as your black-faced angel
    [sweet messiah]
pulled you from the edge of that advancing ocean
    yourself
        undefined.

It's easier now to live through the TV
  swirling static crystallising
thumm-humming against your ears
as nothing more than something you can really
    feel
  [in choreographed 30-minute blocks]

  now you have your beginning-middle-end
go to bed
  forget about
  your empty heart-head-porcelain shell
and the way that it bends
     till it snaps,
like bramble in a fire
so full of heat it must explode
     or
branches under fleeting feet
a hunter dreams asleep
atop his pillow
   "of ******" (I'd say)
"of the chase" (would he)
    "they are the same" (spoke God)

And left us silent, stunned.

it was indeed the loveliest of dreams,
falling asleep
without having to be my own d.j. with classic fm,
waking with a sweet woman’s voice
talking in between playing her favourites
i dreamt
i was sitting alone in an alleyway at night
playing on my sealed up tibia
like a guitar, yes, a fleshy pedal steel guitar,
although with less confession of boogie than
robert randolph,
yet still ably making crystallising sounds of a metal
string twang and pluck.

It wasn’t your fault
I agree people mistake sugar for salt
You were sweet like honey
Along the journey....
Your sweetness decayed
Crystallising bitterness

At the end...

You left me betrayed and senseless

Venus’ poisonous breath -
invisible –
catches itself on the ice
of purged rain
and falls.

Crystallising venom;
no arrow-hearts,
just the invisible ****** weapon
of a sacrificial lamb’s leg
to beat love into submission.

Scorned lovers’ scorned love
aches in the twilight
of the in-between radio stations
where Venus spits songs
about eternal rainfall
and dying in a bathtub of blood
for non-poetic non-love.

Gods laugh
at self-help books
and the implication
that anything at all
is the same
as the last
time the world ended.

Beautiful Venus,
with smoke in her eyes
and golden skin,
waits for men to burn
under her;
laughing and lying
in one breath,
catching and falling again.

I’m counting my tears,
Two, three, four.
Mini acrid reservoirs,
A hundred and two, three, four.
Crystallising on my skin,
A thousand and two, three, four.
And I’m a pillar of condemned,
A million of two, three, four.

The heart
is silent poetry
the incubator
of most-felt words
and sentiments
which are their time biding
for ripening-

even the deepest love
should know that waiting
strengthens every affection
as the flowers know
their right moment
of blossoming-

there shall be
no forcing
the heart-
it's subject
to no one's bidding-

experiences set in
of joy and pain
of living and hating
all life coalesced
in every mood
and feeling

herein
is the breeding
and crystallising
of the most sublime
where the deepest suffering
goes into dissolving
with the heart's sanctifying


and there shall end
the bleeding and sorrowing
when the voice of silent poetry
finds herself in the writing.