fragments for a note book

My step dad rang me from Spain, said he wants to live with me & is that alright? do I want him, etc; love him. I said Yes. He’s drunk a bit again & crying but so what – because he’s lonely, misses me. I haven’t seen him in 10 years & we can’t afford the fare, neither of us, & then there’s Immigration. He’s 71 & it’s too late. But anyway,

he won’t come. Partly because he can’t.

 

2

Wednesday. This is the kind of thing I don’t care for. But

 

today’s different.                    I want

it to mean                              the extra-

ordinary,                                 something

else – a date                            to circle

the lakes,                                 you.

 

I don’t need any-thing, but to

feather your hair in

sunlight;

 

flowers

agree,                                      say Yes to the

breeze,

flies, the hum

of humans,

shoes on the path                   2

feet

away.

 

At night, the scent

of gardens, the warm

blast of contact, salt

air.

 

3

I mistook the dew

for stars; the dazzled leaves

beneath the moon.

 

The night is cool to catch

the breath.

Driven From The Lands

Did she want to be cruel
Way it reads on my mind
Context or content
She took so much context out

I strike my torch to the new moon
The war ends through the night
Scarlet tattoos of butterflies
Drape over her right arm
Wired to meet the dawn of every new day

The imprint of her belt buckle no more
The cut of her dress no longer greets us
To ask verbally impossible
She stoked his fire the entire time
Fooled the rest of us
I wish her well she could have had it better.

queer theory

Why should the fly live?

 

I could end its

time at play

with my

finger

tips

 

between the rains,

now.

At the lake.

 

*

 

That’s

nothing but

what you think it

is, the queerness

of         being some

other man

thing, the object of     my

 

looking

in

 

the mirror       When eyes

meet like that – at a

 

glance – it’s

like you know me        see some

thing I didn’t want you to                   It’s

 

hurt,                crowned                      de-

thorned;                      christ

dragged post-

mortem           to the tomb

or

 

before his

ministry.

 

(You could

end it here.)

 

longview

I get a long-distance call from a girl who says she knows me.

*

Years on, I’m in a room that,

in the abstract, is familiar

with its combination of walls

& furniture.

*

It’s late summer & the sun’s low

yellowing the moth-worn

laces.

*

The voice I know somewhere & a face starts to form,

& part of a name.

 

II

The stars are up & my

lens slips from Saturn’s

disc

 

fumbles about her

kitchen window. I take

 

notes, co-ordinates

as her shadow practices

a monologue or rattles dishes.

 

I’m curious but

disconnected –            I

look     but

do

not.

realise.

harm

there’s no blood & the faint scar’s from years

gone

I’m not

home anymore not high not

stoned but                   away I’m

not

 

fit to hold your

stare say nothing         This

 

is the best I have been

long term

the least disturbed

In dreams my

 

cut’s     not so

deep as to leave anything

more than

worn skin

Purse Kept Gems

To search outwards defines strength,

To wander in the fields of black roses and purple orchids,

Dance around and around under the late summer sun,

Tumblers of pink lemonade, gin and chock full of ice cubes,

Straws and a slice of lime to accommodate,

Gather yourself and meet us there,

We can watch the sun cast it’s light across the evening setting sky.

This art does hurt.

The fusion of good words,

Entwine the threads of conversations,

Little purse kept gems,

Cropping up matters of hope,

Decadent the poison is to be removed,

A vortex of whims dragged below the lavender flower beds,

The chopped heads of flowers will fall to the earth,

Dusty and devout throughout the late afternoon,

Struggling for breath in between,

Drowned in a river of mothers weep and pink lemonade.

when you talk, i listen

I shook like a flower

in your hand.

 

i was

gone

. in spirit                                  i was

not

. what

i                                               was

. but a shake of the head,

 

a nod.                                      not really

understanding.

everybody says I’m like           your

playground companion.

 

When you rise I fall,

like flies on death.

dissolutions in the morning 3

the skin on my finger tip is,

rubs against your in-

side,

 

dry & your smile is

thin. Had a feeling you’d

 

be gone. Saw it clear, some-

where when I shut my

eyes in

 

daylight, saw

red & when

I passed on

almost, black

 

. There’s a knock

& I can’t get to the door before

long

 

I’m at the funeral

& I can’t hear a word

of it & there’s nothing

like death or your mother

 

to kill the buzz, the

crack, your cock between her wide

thighs snapped tight, against

the grain & you fill her good

like that grave/digger

shoving the dirt back in. I’m/

a machine|Not-thinking \ just­­­­/ ff____

 

____fucking because. What else

is there. I’m sure yr/ man doesn’t mind,

because I’m/ family &/ (shh) – my/ mama just died ___________

 

there’s no time

it’s said time will end one day or night as if it now exists which i don’t think it does                                                                                               because

it has no substance, isn’t subject to change therefore, so. tho it’s true i’ve no formal learning                                                                              . but a hunch my instinct is good.

 

when i fell in love i didn’t know what to do & couldn’t think because everything was just you                                                                               know

& i didn’t know where i was or when, & some days i was like No. & other days was just, omg

, Joy & half understood what it is to walk

on the moon. the world is miracle

but you shakin yr heads like it’s, impossible.

balloon, something you invent; figment. idea i think –

one day you’re gone & never was & violins don’t begin to tell it.

i hope these butchered words do.

common ground

do you like the way the fronds come alive

when the light falls and the wind stirs?

how they wave –

 

worm tails, white

your eye stilled

in the darkness of my room.

 

huh, it rained all day and the sun shines

5 minutes before sun-down, but.

 

the first stars,

 

sky