Like brandished knives
Like brandished knives
Against black skies
A confetti of
Giving up their ghosts
Their lives brief
A moment’s blitz
A passing, fleeting
By the minute
But to have shared
1am. Morning comes too soon. Silence seeps through the door from nearby abandoned homes. No stir of life. An unheralded rapture. War of thoughts. Reflections of failures. Insects press upon the window a thick blanket of sounds, a dense racket pierced only by the distant wail from trains. I remember now the sound of my name: cold and clean and too formal on your tongue. Maybe your way of hiding ‘I love you’s.’ I swallow another dream pill and maybe there where the ghost trains go, and to where the disappeared, a promised land once glimpsed in the glow of your smile, where now consumed all beautiful things once gleaned…maybe there this is true. I await my turn at the table of feasts.
I pay no allegiance to confessional truths, But To cloak in words That dim light, That faint tune, That black rhythm that speaks To The Silent stillness Of my soul. To Her in all Her various regal guises, My words are merely My humble song and dance, my humble tribute.
your mother, tired & lovely,
pulled you from the gaping wound
of her womb, a face smudged in
pain & love, tears of compassion, awe & exhaustion on her cheeks
she bled fear & blood for both your lives from her shattered pelvis as you screamed for
air helplessly you
wandered into the world of dry land, your skin, shedding off its aquatic soul, burnt from the sun & sky
blue became your new dome of dependence
but red was your first colour, of compassion, of power, & light & love as
she twisted open her own centre, to pull you into this world, so you may gaze at the glory of the
sky every day her
love, rests in your bones, her love is only a sliver of what she gilded onto you, as God carved you from her flesh
live your life knowing, she was willing to die, to give up her breath, stolen by the dawning & setting sky, to give you breath instead
live it thankfully, peacefully, completely, unbegrudgingly despite the pain that rest in each, our human hearts
At first I was doubtful, though it happened so effortlessly in recurring dreams. But I thought: How hard could it be. And the way the wind pulled and tugged and flitted me - I had an inkling. So under the pale orange electric lights - I think it must have been dusk, Friday evening, the streets peopled with curiosity, and small minds - here I began. I was indeed floating. I passed the mad dogs, the cursing housewives, drunken men looking for a fight. People Nursing their frail superiority. Dying where they began. I astonished myself. I…upright, my feet far off the ground.
One day, One day We will Listen
To the Adulation Intent On her
Breath And Chirped From Trees
For wicked are their mirrors.
And March Us We
Blushed Blue Souls From
The Provinces of Lies
Afflicted with this most human of sicknesses, this most human of needs, and even when now become sunken my cheeks and arid the earth but for the sadness and regret of tears…know It was not first the flesh preying buzzards that befell me but this need love with its talons smearing itself with the innocent red of my soul blood that have fed upon me. Men who having once tasted her luscious summer lips fritter away their lives seeking her, over and over, in watery dungeoned throes and now their parched open sores upon these crags. Often A futile quest. Again.
As If Rushing Through Golden The Great Big Fields Of Wheat To Kiss Me A War Separated Lover Of Light In This Final Yet First Morning Act The Sun Surges And Explodes Through The Blinds White And…And Ecstatic Are My Eyes.
Love was Joyce, love was Neruda, the way she unbound my eyes,
my mind, my heart with her inspiring light. Love was she and I on that limitless path strolled by words & imagination holding hands.
By the green algae bitter water I stooped. An enigma He appears.
Rounding out hidden truths. Knowledge kindled and roiled on His tongue. Sweet warm red explosions of sounds. He. But those with voluminous words know no more than the mute. For. She. Would. Find. Me. Life fully formed and stars dripping behind her black back story.
It was those purple hours when unlit the houses, under greying and darkening skies, perched sullenly out there in the distance. The lonely hours, where in the gloom between day and night, Lonely hands stir meals for one and barren hours feed on themselves and on the glow of numbing and violently flashing blue lights. Each heart, each house will solemnly speak its emptiness there In the nigh of dreams; each betraying desires, engorging themselves on the carnal only to remain unsated, forgetful of charges once in the Souls’ transference of light. But there she was, a reminder: A single rose in a garden at dusk luring the innocence of my heart.
In that Orphaned Life, She was as a comforting lover in my comfortless wailings. And too the stern sea. Her Ebon soul. La noché. She was beauty and mysteries uncharted; there I drowned, and the last things I saw were her eyes or they could easily have been the stars