Friday, 15 March 2013

She (1985)

Into the deep blue of a night sky
pour my lone soul
and let the four winds blow these feelings to

Ask the magic of the moons caress
and the sparkle of stars
to change the forlorn to a smile,
plant on her lips this kiss I can't give
and fill her heart with all I long to say.

Send raven clouds
direct and swift as sparrows,
to wing my missing joy
by her bedside a day away.
Awaken her with the smile I save
for her
beautiful face.

Great wheels race,
take this
enraptured of darkness,
and speed the distant moment of return
nearer to this place
where separated
lovers meet.

Mantle dark,
which blankets many a sad lament,
take this weight of waiting,
lift it to the void,
for my strength can only bring it to me
on this wrinkled bed which
sags in the spot
where she would lay.

Throw off this cover,
rend these stifling sheets,
urge the breeze she keeps
to wrap me
and air this space
of silent refrain for the voice that 
makes my days.

Deepest blue of this dark nights sky
send light,
a dawn,
to shine on me
while she sleeps
a land and far sea away,
and send to her the nights that burn
this hole inside of me.




...the moment comes when you find the center is a falsehood, the road will kill you surely as a stroke rejects the heart of hell rising up to greet you, to share your triumph, festooned in garlands of fruit and roses kissed by the cupid, shot by panthers, that roam the streets of all small ventures...

toast your success and wait for the other shoe to fall, trip up partners, search for new mates and twist the meanings of words so they glean an advantage, gold gleams and silver is pretty, the heart hardens as the years drip from open vanity, you never knew, it didn't matter and the day comes at last...

push those hands deep into these pockets and deliver the freedom of kingdoms to me, return the old sweaters to the mall, visit the garden of wisdom, save the experience of wilderness and bleed the animals for adventure, we build a better nature than she does so we win the game, and you think it's me you're fooling...

where there is love the world goes round and when the basket is empty only the voices of children will be heard, softly singing sleep in its cradle, mixing metaphors in the blink of an eye, shaving the lather off tips of white asparagus moles, my vacation is the birth of my father in law and the beginning of life is on the second floor making entry more meaningful than passing the eye of a needle, throw the eye of a shoe, the horn is the tongue and the lash says goodbye, I've met someone new and I won't be you in my life anymore unless she beats the crap out of me more than you used to, then bring the shame and let's get drunk...

poop hatch opens to all that looks like bad drawing, but do apply, for the truly cross are never far from their own salivations
the messiah shows up and wants to spend the night change must be available from the star's homes and conscientious citizens rally the flag at the white courtesy phone , installed for your convenience and open to suggestions, just don't touch me and don't fondle that thing while I'm in the room, it's given me the creeps since you first left it in the toilet...

Singapore if you went in and didn't do anything at all, and then didn't flush, perhaps thought about it and decided to save the water...

It didn't stop floaters from drifting and misty-eyed wanderers from seeing double when twins were present, the glorious principles of revolutions spinning away in a night sky above the million insect swarm, heat the water of nuns thighs and cause the dismal milk of cherry mothers to whisper sweetly, the ears are too soft to use and what was lifted has not remained intact, please swing the body to center and drill the scrotum to the ground, a leading cause needs to be followed and a record must be kept for the sake of charities she supported and the drinks still flow and cars whirl through the night attacking tar as she tries to break through my soul...

don't leave this place of sharing and run to the arms of another promise, the rain won't stop and I can't swim out farther than the boat, the gambling seas are rigid in our delay and the fur of frosted nightshade likes the cool of basil in the sauce, my brothers unite and weep for this passing and the morning will be found in the streets of Zurich, far from the lake and the cous-cous that costs more than the flesh of the dumb waiters children who regale the exile that religion affords, my eye, my ayatollah, the aubergine is full of worms and she won't visit while the dog remains...

my friends weep in silence a thousand miles away, the bluebird rips the thorn and the willow knows no bounds, tomorrow may never come and this requires no planning, insure the work against theft and put a mercenary guard at the door, jealousy will not seize the day so long as the hood is in place...

in that jungle there are no sentinels, no long-necked fools earning their tomorrows today, the pension is the limit of love the better the lawyer will argue for its garnish and the jury will agree, no man needs more money to commit sin, wear the leather gloves sister gave you and beat the thing against the wall harder than you thought possible, but it will not go away and it will linger and it will sting and it must not make you bitter, better is to deal with yourself and not take the kids holidays to your place next to just like it's always been...

none of what you experience will be revealed to you, sleep or come to surface like a whale, all flash and scream and blood and the confines of your head and heart are a pasture in which you grow and space is left for all which remains driven or beaten or humiliated, you lie about and fertilize the ground of your own being...


Citystupid (1984)

and the light doesn't shine
in my eyes
blind longing and filling
up the emptiness
in streets that reek of unknown
beer bottled up inside
molds to stink
and tar is its bed
in the company of fines and arrest
and filthy clothes borrowed
from the charitable
complete dissolution
the dream of surviving
and survival's fit
only to be rejected for being
glazed over 
as ice in winter
muscles emaciated
so eyes can't 
giving up the ghost and keeping
the lovely bottle
trade me in for the deposit
trade me in and keep the empty
trade me in and keep the change
trade me in
I'm too stupid now
to live in the city.


Saturday, 9 March 2013

So this is the future...
a lashing wind that blows hard
enough to rip plants out of the ground
and leave them dangling
to the lines that had held them secure
the ties transformed in nooses,
little dead tomatoes wither

the rains, too light, carried on the winds
loosen the soil, making roots
rotting saplings slowly yellow
in the crater where they once
stood firm

even the sky, once all blue
now cloven, like hoof
part grey and menacing
part azure, offering escape
but no escape is available
not from the mess we've made
and too little too late
is cold comfort
when there's nothing on your plate

my friends, there is no friend
for a friend would have stopped
upon realizing the damage being done
no friend and not friendly
the response is coming
and on this evil wind
comes the messenger
warning of the fall,
of the end of it all

not just here, no. everywhere
from desert to mountain
and sea to shining sea,
from rounded hilltops
to rolling stream and forest
once green, see it now
I have only tears that ask how

the future we have conjured up
the smoke that will choke us
the water we will thirst for
once it is gone, wasted to clean
the profits we say we need
more than this world

So this is the future...
based on our desires and
ruined by our greed
that poison seed, we planted
to gain the sky we have polluted
to make the pie, we are so deluded

Shall no grain remain, not a kernel
no fruit to offer in love,
no refreshing breezes, no shading leaves?
Even if we stopped, fully committed
to saving what little remains,
our past endeavours, prevent us
from freeing this world from our chains.

Friday, 8 March 2013


Loganberries grow slowly vining their way across the ground
stretching out spiny limbs to hug the earth
setting little roots in to the moist loam
sprouting new clusters of leaves

they must be very patient because once started
no stunted growth will express a part in the glory
of a fruit as big as my thumb, loganberries
in shades of green, pink, red and black
surrounded by flowers that promise more bounty

they like moist and hot, they like to be near rocks
they hang from the trellis by the bodega
keeping company with the grapes that also
vine but don't hug, only strangle with curling
fingers wrapped tightly around a node

Loganberries are not friendly though
they stick soft skin with harsh thorns
pricking the fingers that try to groom
and harvest them, much like a lion
who will not suffer its mane be combed.

The wind cries

the       wind               blows                    hard
    the   branches            it rips off                          the trees
      litter              the                    ground
around                                                  the cabin
      they       lay on the        browning     leaves
scraped                                                             off the limbs

         the wind                        is          constant                           for       days
with              powerful gusts            i n t h e n i      gh t
                               that push the trees to
the limit                                                   of their
                                    ability to           withstand         this                     gale

                        eucalyptus suffers,
but                                                does not break
while                      juniper
          becomes                       a                          victim
                  of the                                 howling
                                          and yesterday                                guaniquil
lost           an                 arm, while                         Heber
           nearly                    froze       his ears
                         in               the          tropical mountain                            jetstream

        from                 high                                            above the turbulence
            the picture from space                                  shows
little                     more             than puffy                          clouds
                 floating                                    peacefully                         above
     the               tortured         forest                                  and land

                   if          one thing              is left                           standing
after                         all            the     f   o   r    c    e has       been                spent
      it                   will be a                 tribute to            all those           who have
fallen before the lashing winds