Midnight’s Height

Note: Low Is The New High.

14.11.2016, 12.02am, the town where I live
experienced a 2 minute, 7.8 earthquake, lifting the land
by as much as 2 metres, creating, in the former
lowest Lowtide line, the new Hight Tide mark.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
In utter broken outage, in the blackness
whitened yellow silver, in the fullness
of those rare moons, at almost, for this,
bang on Midnight’s height,
we are thrown at the padlock of our fear,
dragged off our beds, and over chairs,
and we move through the glass-sprinkled air
of living rooms exploded
in what roaring primal Rage
of tectonic stress unloaded
in apocalyptic violence
Thought will not enquire into yet.
At sudden depth, the awful noise of rockets,
we are thrown into walls, and to our knees,
looking for our keys, our children, our devices;
like dogs on their lease, the Appliances
have pulled out of their sockets.
Samsung Sony Panasonic;
50 inch of shattered sonic
smartness laying facedown praying, so it looks
…like I have the time to think,
in the bone-cold terror of my death
appearing early, time to think
of Self, and only him, the I
from which we draw and hold
essential authenticity…But moving on,
we must escape, that was not enough,
after we’d been threw about our rooms,
hissing, in the waking interrupted, circled,
by the dust motes of seabird, the Ocean
had withdrawn, and I left
my favourite instrument, took Mac,
in my unprepared I left, in the stuttered
shaking darkness, in the black
unfocused areas Interpretation falters,
people hanging on inside their shoulders
as the roads fill immediately with traffic
negotiating cracks, and separations
between us disappear between the sirens
wailing monotone unmodulated messages
in our summer sleeping knickers
in headlamp and knucklebones
focused over steering wheels
hunting out a place to go, a narrative,
the Weave to stay strong.

Mother’s Torment

Her hair is surf-sea waves

crossing an ashen face.

Who is she now her colour is gone,

and her limbs are weak?

Recognised and not; alive and not,

a thin gown riding her bones,

a buzzer in a skeletal hand.

And where is the family now,

now that she has fallen, now

she is cast and cast aside?

No photo, no hand clasped,

no one to moisten her pale lips

now the breaths are weak.

Just a man afraid of death,

scared to touch his source of life,

to say, even now: I love you,

to stroke the blue pulse of her hand.

He forgets her struggle; he forgets.

Her company is loneliness

and a fraying cane chair

Flickers of Light


To roam those miles in your eyes,
Through the lands of your devouring orchids,
Covered by lavender and purple orchids,
Your garden hides your daughters,

A bloodline of high priestess sovereignty,
You choose the path you take,
Your rights to status marks your best choices,

The flickers of light behind each eyelid,
My heart thumps each drum beat,
Those are my eyes how could they know,
Because they know what I’m hiding,
This paranoia is becoming intoxicating,

I fill my days with 8 thousand variations,
Clip art impersonations and cups of tea to wash away the toxins,
Boolean logic fated by a roll of a dice,
No path certain,
No fate met.

Under A Hat

I became him under his hat,

felt his voice rise in my throat

and felt his smile on my face.

We shared part of a life.

Lives.

And then he went, bent with pain.

At the end, he tried to joke.

He said a man in another bed

came to pray.

Yes, he said, pray if you will.

And the man fell to his knees

and reached for his hand

and asked for healing, except

that it was beyond God.

Then.

What with the cancer

eating his gut, gnawing his will.

He said, before the end

that a man had been shifted

to a room alone.

Well, he said.

You know what that means.

And next day he was in there,

facing south

 

 

that man

      that man
              to Leonard Cohen RIP

that man
in his elegant
disguise of
razored
word
took us down
to the river
that twisted with
light amidst long
runs of darkness,
that river sounded
like a whisper into
the microphone
of dream,
ran with the
strength of a
lover’s body
all the length
of touch,
ran over
sunken gardens
and that stone
carved deeper
than the night
with the name that
can never be said
that his people
lost and carry ever
in its loss

now
we who
loved the
spoken edge
of you
must
carry
yours

12 november 2016

statistics

They’re no use: the obtuse

facts have nothing to do

but twiddle their thumbs and,

hum in the dark.

 

*

 

Our love is mute

as the moon tears

 

the lilac sky

with her horn;

 

adorns the void

between us –

 

mere idea

in the womb.

 

In this early phase

we’re 9 times

 

more likely to conceive

some fabulous

 

thing no Man

can imagine. Our kiss

 

too is twice

as nice and as

 

hot at night,

on the eve of a new

 

working week,

rising to 2.2

 

in summer.

It’s true. Your thighs

 

loosed, and your eyes,

found a darker shade

 

of blue. You sighed,

turned to one side

 

and the scent

of broom

 

found the gap

in the crack

 

of the pane and came

into the room.

 

In the heat of it

all, I saw

 

Saturnine rings,

as the Martian

 

fire crowned the stars

of Libra.

 

That might not be solid

fact either, but who cares

 

when years from now

beneath the white

 

light of a full moon,

there’s a 1 in 25

 

shot you’ll take a stroll,

stop to fill the hole

 

in your head with stones

and plunge like a stone

 

in the river? No-one

saw , but a man

 

out with his dog

thinks he heard some

 

wild call.

I’d just turned

 

the television off,

looked at the clock

 

and peered at the gaps

between the stars.

 

In the morning, you’re

nothing at all, and I

 

half that, which is

no kind of fact,

 

but so?

true.

to be someone

up like a dog

all night, in the damp

flat, an ear for a knock

on the door or

a horn in the fog

of a car park,

some vacant lot,

 

in my hand hot

banknotes. i become

someone i’m not –

an ace Face, leant

against the brick

wall out back, men

come for. i lost

 

surplus weight, trimmed

to a mere 9 stone,

6; nevertheless

me & my mates

ran the length

of the main line,

on a high naturel

 

of fresh air &

pills. i got sick

of all those girls

and boys, and all that

noise; cured again when

the Man

came.

Just an Old Fashioned love Song

george-faith-and-lydia-and-i-2014I’m just an old-fashioned love song,

There’s nothing extraordinary about me,

I believe in Jesus,

Marriage,

Children,

My neighbour.
In today’s world,

Where faith is jeered,

Marriage is scorned,

Children are considered annoyances,

I walk out of step,

The song I sing is quiet

Yet strong,

To thy own self-be true,

It’s hard to live true to myself,

I disappear

When I’m left with the stranger living inside me.
An old-fashioned love song,

That’s me,

Feeling odd,

Feeling strange

In a world going another way.