Curtain

You might trace

the eye-sockets

of enemies

 

settled in the folds;

curious samples of feet

– the duck

 

or elephant tramping off

the hem of the cliff.

I loathe a modern home

 

set to cream on cream;

a sterile soap pinching

corners; eyes have

 

no place to comb.

I like these cheap hotel

designs; the remnant bins

 

a hive of animates.

 

5 February, 2018

Exclusive eyes

Exclusive Eyes

 

The changes in the temperature when they walk into the room,

my desires and my memories all hang upon a loom.

 

Exclusive eyes they do not care for me,

they see only beauty and it’s me they fail to see.

their sepia gaze drawn down from a million nights

as the world spirals down a thousand frugal flights.

 

Exclusive eyes are ones of indescribable nature,

sharp they are not, nor are they round.

Magnificent and present not unlike Panhellenic stature

but like these granite features, their meaning can never be found.

 

Exclusive eyes how they make me think.

What must I do? What must I be?

to make exclusive eyes blink.

 

They watch the turning world with the sweetest despair

and they see through me as if I were a glass of wine.

Exclusive eyes don’t have a minute to spare

but as time eludes me, the moment seems too fine.

 

 

History

You exist in the poor length

of my second toe, our lip and Irish eye

that pinks upon the island air.

 

I’m bored cleaning corpse from

empirical floor.  I pack jaws

that don’t speak, at doors to centuries.

 

Sing – give us wars that ring

in your elbow, sting of injury,

and porous nuance.

 

I heard a man tore you once

and told your whanau in desperation.

They stood, and taught him to carve.

 

It matters, in the new-bled day

that pours out of sun or piddles in the rain,

I learned a wing healed upon the plane.

 

8/05/17

 

Note- plane as in planing wood.

Still-life

Will stay

 

but not fight

embarrassment

in the lewd sun.

 

Bring down infamous rain;

the fingernail and the boot.

 

I will sit here. Tender.

 

But a still-life is a dead thing.

I saw one sit and never breathe again.

 

I paint corpses,

apples and such,

 

and the red ones dance

like they were paid.

 

It’s all in the head.  They are dead.

And roll off the stage.

 

Feb 26