Hush, Now

Her eyes are like fire
& Diamonds in blue
Between the lobby and the hotel room

Better the Queen

It ticks,
And it flits from the back of the mind,
The twitch that tells all, this time
The message was heard
Loud & clear
It sounds, the bell
Cheers a merry, gold doom
Breaking each second with doubt
& soon, the light will out
Or the sun will rise
The fight to see which comes first
Determined by pride
It's the waiting - the pleasure
No, it's the torture that lies in waiting
For the Sirens' call again,
Not the Muse, but then
She never was much of a wife
Better the Queen of the Sea
Or King of My Life
Better the Queen of the Sea
Than thunder drowned in being my wife

Yet We Hide Indoors

If it is pouring holy-well filled sky,
Tilt to the grey,
Open, gaping mouth-wide
Swallow the Heavens,
Dig up your lungs, bury them alive
to worship the sun

From neck to breast
Breast to tip
Fingers to sockets, femurs to ribs
Feel the porous marrow groan,
Inflated with all the offerings cold,
Prey for rain, and snow, and hail,
Worship the sun
And memories gold

Last Time, it Felt Like Home

Hours have passed through parallel,
Flashing regret
Well, I didn't close my eyes once while you slept
Nor should I have
Those waking moments kept alive
Only while the light is fleeting
And you, sleeping
Without a single breath against the nape of my
neck

Does life lead by obsession grow wasted?
Or does the silent storm hastily bury open trap-doors?
Not slammed shut, but filled up of disgraces
The handles, too hot to unearth what
Was trapped beneath
Intangible possibility
Hours of spoken thought - I feasted
Became a mind in clarity - a jumble now
Of tangled shoe-laces
And faithless
Doubtful of others' intentions
All seeming so bleak and baseless
The moments kept, and keep still
A fist firm fury
Frozen around the pumping chest-spaces
Spaces where organs once drummed a life-strong beat
Spaces where your clothes strewn briefly in heat
How thoughtless I am to waste such moments
Indulgence in theoretical romance
How graceless to wish you to me
Like the sun to to the plum
Or leaves of a plant
Impatient to know a future that will not unfold
Good gracious

December's Whore

Today's winter sun is a brazen whore,

Taunting hungry, unloved skin, with her burnt sanguine glow

She's the look about her, that she might offer you more

As her distant gaze of longing grows

Aching at the very bones for radiant days

The skies roar with her fervoured fury but

December's sun is a wretched tease

She offers no warmth within her rages,

While she waltzes rubicundity

Leaves starve from her lacking,

Leaning, and giving from their veins

From December's whore find themselves blackened

Above lurid city outlines, lays herself to rest

Every footstep buries her wake's destruction

Sucking up the smoking bellows,

To turn their waste,

To tormented pleas of comfort

Useful only in torture, and madness,

All enraged souls that have been bought,

Bleating with open beaks,

To a mother's guilt of young's starvation

Who might watch their feathers loosen

Become quiet, resigned,

Meek

December's whore, is my maddening mistress

Distressing the heart with slow beats of calm,

She dances her rapture and beauty before me,

But she offers no warmth in her arms

In her embrace

She offers nothing

O, Cryer of Restless Passion!

On the hill where I was born, towers a cross of molten pleasure. From the well of such abandon, measured souls of discontent against the very same pretence, to form a circle; a hole. An onslaught of insight into raging underworlds, where black is right and rich is more; the pox, lays not upon the skin of the pore, but sewn in seedless batches of infertility – amongst those, who in the ancient wake of Sodom’s prerogative, not only closed their eyes and chose to ignore, but showed no bounds to their metrical attraction. An empire was built back then, on this social interaction based on coins, on sex – on all things we now choose to possess – and possessed, we are. By the spectres that might own our bodies. By the buildings tall, that might own our hearts. By eternal gluttony, for which there is no beneficiary, yet a myriad of descendants, growing vastly rotund for the throat spilling-passion of grotesque, barren consumption.
Let the skies fade, for now, let the clouds brighten days without regret of rain – until the acid comes pouring and pouring again. Until emaciated crows scream delight at the carcass, at the very bones of humanity we consider to be left without homes. Let the eagles pick, for now. They live in hope that quiet pray will come resigned, someday, to lay their Promethean bodies down along the rocks and beg, beg, beg for the beaks of starvation to swallow their life’s dissatisfaction.
Are we dissatisfied with the night that calls our names? Twinkling like pyres from one thousand miles reach, to where the smell of fuelled flesh can break the eyes of steeled minds, and rope-like arms. Are we dissatisfied with a life without harm? The clouds have laid to the heavens their furious, threats of fervour. They have called without pity, clemency, forgiveness. They have called, and they have spoken my name for their sacrifice. To the hammer, I must walk. To the gallows, must I smile?
To the hammer, I must run.

Lexical Displacement

Do you remember a time
When we drew breath
Like swords with dull edges,
And pallid reflections?
The many faces of God, as we turn to stone
Whispered obscenity along
Weathered cracks?
Do you remember
The cozen winds,
Snapping trenchant icicles,
As we kissed among the bluster?
The bloom,
The constant threat of rain
That might drench and drown?
Do you remember the dancing
In circles,
Parting of palms, executing frenzy
With impalpable serenity,
Dressing for sanity,
Pulled vastly from the tracks?
Do you remember?

What Is Encoded

Prowess or virility?
To thousands upon thousands of years
Recorded history,
To the earliest stumblings of humankind's most
Awkward fumblings,
Are next placed, shinier, more radiant objects
A soft palm, and fruits that by their conception
Are untasted to those within frustration
Fail in definition
A shapeshifting election - unfair game,
Not a sport of equals, but species apart
In truth, the utterly unsame -
The 'other kind'
From domestic safety, torn, all unchallenged
Knights, who have failed, until now, in gallantry
To lance and spear the cumbersome,
Malleable in construction - from warm bread
And nucleaic notions of nubility or bloodline,
Unfathomable reaches into the depth of what,
Or who,
Is encoded

Live from New York...

The smiles formed in lines, with a quiet
Smirking sort of joy
I see you back then, flame-hearted
Fiery laughter
Pouring at my nails,
Ebony tufts, breaths
Like silent reigns
Running to Satan with your shoes in the mud
Petticoats drowned in lace
Harpsichord born, and aching with blood
Tearing aside the bows, dental pleasures
Growing like marshmallows
In hands that slide into petals
Almost-sunshine in our bedspread fort
Almost marbles with heart-strings taut
My fumbling storyteller,
Tell me again?
A smile;
Formed in lines of quiet joy

Blackmarks in the Doorshapes

We reside, like doormice,
In a silent era
With just a mime to denote dropping bombs
Like beautiful missiles,
With Roman smiles
Bloody hands scrubbed to death with peroxide
We reside like mutemen in a golden age
Tripping over our own meek voices
Until the silence begins to creep, and grow
Seeds in to roots, in to trees, we sew
Seeds of passionate, vermillion hatred
Futile with rage, wild,
Untasted
Spitting out everything we know,
Cooking it up
Splashing it down,
Whisking it 'round
Until the dark comes creeping about
Catburglers and perverts alike
In to bed at night, slither and slide
Filling up that stale, bored mind with thoughts of
My pedestrian life...
I push it down
And I push it down
And I push it down
Until the pain subsides and tthe guilt is drowned