14/2/08 No.6
Disasters, Angels, Violence!
Oh well. We are one.
And who's to blame
for one-ness?
It's that look in your eyes.
I can never communicate with that place,
that look.
It's all disasters and angels and violence.
10/3/08
It was a long way home through those eyes.
Your soul lay just beyond the horizon,
hiding shyly behind it,
and I could tell
from a shimmering mirage on the ocean between our gazes,
that it had its tail between its legs.
And still you smiled,
as part, even,
of the expression you wore
by which your brow so endeavoured
to put a veil like night upon those restless seas,
so weakly,
so helplessly and effortlessly,
and yet at such a length,
and it was such a long way home.
17/7/08 No.5
I understand
all those heads cocked sideways,
under the weight of heaven.
Such a proposed idea
must be a burden indeed.
An angel
nervously playing a lute.
Robes of bright primary colours.
It's all about waiting for something to happen.
That's why we still love them.
3/8/08 No.2
A little hornet. Some
of the leaves on
the rosebush are
rotting. The hum
of insects, but
not one to be seen, not
for fear of a little hornet,
not for play or for
some hideous metaphor.
Amongst this a flower,
though truly amorous, drops,
like liquid to
the floor
of a little garden.
12/8/08 No.3 (After 27/4/08)
There were?
Things that stared at me
from the side of the street.
Bearded men,
cigarette buds
littering the pavement,
being frantically nibbled upon
by birds browsing for souls.
Colours which ever receded,
but never disappeared.
Hungry pedestrians,
sewerage sitting as still as a cloud,
depending on the weather,
rain brought a frantic,
gazing vacancy.
15/8/08
I'd bet there's no one
who knows how long those
fatigued shutters,
still with a hint of
someone else's faded blue,
have hidden
what one may presume to be
a time-forgotten home
of dust mites and unheard noises.
17/9/08
A wall,
built between the black and white
of a soul. A fish,
flopping on the deck of a ship,
a locked in creature, with
neither life nor death in its eyes,
waiting for death in a fit of panic.
Your feet take turns to keep a look-out,
sometimes
you lift your hand to your mouth,
another bolt on the door. A mother
violently shaking her death stricken child,
tears unseen amongst a flurry
of wading pilgrims. You
can't stop them from drowning.
11/10/08 No.2
I stared beyond it, still,
it was all that stood before my eyes.
I didn't understand how
something that far could
be so bright. The swan,
(the swan,) its light (an inferno),
I approached it, and
it pecked my heart out.
15/10/08 No.2
Oh, despair! I've fallen
into far too many flames, and now
the skin grafts on my soul
have disfigured my thoughts beyond recognition.
Those burning eyes, I feel their heat
with a platonic purity. A
lack of context other than the
vast space between the
inevitable lonesome wanderings of two,
(as is the human condition,)
overly conscious minds. So,
my love, be you my enemy do please excuse me
that I would call you such a thing.
25/10/08 No.2
There's dead foliage in the forest of my thoughts.
Autumnal beds of the long forgotten
hiding saplings on paths long overgrown.
There are birds to distribute the seed of fruiting trees,
they fly, confused and distracted
in long and winding paths.
The winds and rains come day to day.
The forest of my thoughts is fed by those of yesterday,
by the soil of leaves long decomposed and soon
again cold winds will see branches bare.
17/11/08 No.2
All just warming their hands on the fire of my soul,
like parasitic thieves they took my thoughts,
made off to the bay and
sipped wine by the lapping waves.
17/11/08 No.3
Silence and the hiss of what one might be thinking,
the temperature cannot continue to descend,
for everything is still.
Somewhere from birds, a trill,
and somewhere in the ice my thoughts have met an end,
and in the sea of your words I find I'm sinking.
19-20/11/08
Today light greets my eyes with a new stealth.
The old withdrawing blues turn on their heels
to run, the yellow of the midday sun
takes cover under a crimson vale, and
its rays reflect but unseen greys upon
the pure white feathers of a sleeping swan.
Today the sound is cautious to my ear.
Somewhere a child whistles a melody,
and though shrill in the air, it's warm to hear,
and though dead leaves waltz to a strong wind's tune,
it dares not so tempt one strand of my hair.
Nor as my still, unblinking, eyes are struck
by violent gusts and particles of dust
do I hear but the voice of dreams and hum
the tune to which I feel I may go numb.
24/11/08
My thoughts are written in a foreign script,
and I can see your eyes endeavouring
to read it, fruitlessly, by focusing
beyond the sharp horizon of my light.
But one must know that, eyes upon the sea,
beyond the gaze's reach where land still lies,
there gazes back another pair of eyes,
whose strength but reaches one identity,
and no two thoughts were ever spelt the same.
27/11/08
There was no consensus between the gods
that nothing can be still on the plane of time,
which but quietly admires that which firmly stands.
Consider the heads of men
that were carved from stone which may by now,
having been used instead
in mighty ancient constructions, castle walls,
the gates of Rome, or housed a man
who wrote a text now lost,
have crumbled, long eaten by another of Earth's plans.
He's in that gallery every time you visit,
and the distance behind you reached by his dead gaze,
ever increases.
But only so there is something
by which you can acknowledge it,
it's a spacial vibration within your soul,
the space where you come to visit
and gaze back at him.
1/12/08
I swam, bereft of light,
carried silently at the heel of an ocean current,
and something passed me by, I heard
a green shimmer,
which sparkled for the water's random distortions,
or caught reflections of my drunken heartbeat
as it tripped over itself.
To my timely means
there could be no elsewhere,
and all the more wildly the seagrass danced
as, having become ignorant to words,
I drifted within your heathen laughter,
and all the more sheep gathered in black herds.
9/12/08
I'd been too long bound by the ropes of your deceit,
my blood the silent hostage of a single glance
which forced an entry to my veins,
and therein grew the parasitic vines, like deadly strains
of every virus which had ever known your blinding light.
A glance after which I could know no other
for a sudden impenetrable thickness in the foliage of my thoughts.
So then to this depth, I plunged
blindly,
and ropes are still breaking under the weight of your eyes.