Tailor-made
United against our every undoing,
succeeding to quell our extinction,
yet fight amongst our common hands
and hearts of little distinction.
With a finger of shame, we point and blame
at showcased felons, and scorn.
Catching eyes in the mirror, it couldn’t be clearer
where the lies and deception were born.
And had we the time to record every crime
or in-bred diseases of thinking,
then sleep lay resigned, and seldom we’d find
but a moment that warrants our blinking.
Fashion me, tailors, a social religion
to taper me tight at the hips.
But grant me illusion to make the decision
of how best to lie with my lips.
Some may call me smug
An altogether different type of alpha-male,
free from the abuses that install false confidences,
he sits and ponders and scouts his prey,
ready to close his soft and selfless jaws
around the pulsing artery that dances in their necks,
lapping up their crimson hearts with a tongue that’s built for banter,
leaving the plump and undeserving chest of a bolder kind
heaving with wasted air,
swallowing their prejudices through an unhinged jaw.
Watch now as he takes his leave,
takes the girl, and takes your pride.
Altogether different, and still what’s more,
that dazzling beauty, she will be loved,
bring him tea when he’s grey and old,
adore and be adored.
Stir two spoons of sugar in youth,
and death with taste quite bitter.
Orbit
Sometimes,
even on the brightest day,
suspended like a pearly bubble,
she glows,
and beams her shiny smile;
a distant glimpse of heaven.
Though seldom do we share the sky,
I often, from behind the hills,
steal a setting glance,
and grin with rosy lips
as I slip behind the brow.
And when morning comes,
I stretch my golden fingers,
reaching out to hug her.
But her silver heart grows weary,
and softly undeterred
she sleeps,
and dreams beneath my fire.
But sometimes,
even when I burn the most,
a kindly, cool complexion,
suspended like a pearly bubble,
wakes from sleep and kisses me,
and orbits my reflection.
Ivy
One part sweet
and three parts sour,
the seeds I sewed grow by the hour.
Discreet and neat, they’ll rise to meet,
to greet and flower at my feet.
But now the cold will take a hold,
and tender leaves begin to fold.
They need the sun, they need the rain,
else all their songs were sung in vain
and thrown to winds that howl with power;
bold the bane that scaled the tower
whose bell that rung in the midnight hour
was one part sweet
and three parts sour.
The so-called “modern”
Is this how you’d have it?
Does this tune ring true?
A madman’s ramble,
spewed,
like the innards of drunkards.
Whimsical wisdoms,
stuttered,
severed by line breaks
as if I’d forgotten what I was going to say.
Tell me, is this how you’d have it?
Does this tune ring true?
I’m the stern look on the faces of teachers,
scowling at what you have to say,
belittling you…
Go on.
Feel belittled.
And now I am them.
Words come and go,
abundantly so,
but few seem worthy of the page.
But you desire the splattered canvas.
To be purchased by those who wish to admire
something more thoughtless than they.
Whitehaven
I’ll crash through the swell,
hold my face to the spray,
wipe the salt from my lips
so they can swear and can pray.
Trim the head, trim the main,
crank the winch, pump the stay;
sailing my way to Whitehaven.
When my feet start to ache,
I think of silica sand.
When I tire and fall,
I recall why I stand.
There’s not many here
who can try understand
until they set foot on Whitehaven.
It’s not just her promise,
her colour or shape,
nor is it alone her smell or her taste.
No matter how hard, or how long I must wait,
I’ll never give up on Whitehaven.
Runner
The kingdom bells rang out, rang out,
and cornered every cobbled street,
whose stones lay worn from summer heat,
and scuffed by dashing, running feet.
The windows whispered as he passed,
and clapped (for ignorance is bliss),
but through the cracks they caught a glimpse,
and spoke the origins of legend.
He flew between the roofs of houses,
scaled the heights of the kingdom towers,
looked down upon the streets below,
his eyes, his smile, the both aglow,
and watched the bobbing lanterns,
swimming through the lanes,
forming clusters at open doors,
but the night parade could do no more.
Admitting defeat at the first light of dawn,
retreating, their words as clear as were they worn,
“He’s the son of a ghost,
and in shadows was born.”
If only they were noble
I’ve seen men waste away in the absence of purpose,
caught adrift on the tides of uncertainty,
breaking over the rocks
and casting their indecisiveness
high against the sun,
and I’ve seen the rainbows through their tears,
watched them fall from nowhere skies,
frustrated in their unpaved search
for anything of importance.
I’ve seen them hold to passing clouds,
hugging and struggling to pot their pain,
falling after every drop
in devoted desperation,
in valour and in vain,
in hope there’s love in vertigo,
‘cause there sure ain’t none in rain.
And I’ve seen them dive back through the crest,
plummet beyond their sunken loves,
to deposit another.
Clawing towards the brighter promise;
adrift again, and in dire need
of nobler occupation.
Curiosity killed the cat
That forbidden kiss was just the start;
my thirsty love, your longing heart.
I pulled you close, you took me in,
we filled the time with lips and skin.
If we grew wings, free and blue –
we damn near did, we damn near flew –
d’ya reckon then we’d be okay,
would you take my hand and fly away?
Or are you still tethered, as well as feathered,
and clipped by indecision?
Cos I for one was born to fly,
and won’t rot my heart in prison.
We were happy once to make-believe,
both looking for a reason
to do just as we pleased.
But who’d have thought the lovers
would let their hearts concede,
fall victim to each others’ words,
and watch their promise bleed?
Heart collectors
Steal my beats and rhythms
and stow them in your silver buckets,
chock full of suiters,
kept on ice
beside champagne and French white wine
to keep us all intoxicated,
falling at your feet,
for we are drunk, and have lost our own;
without our legs we cannot stand,
but without our hearts we cannot live,
so we leave them in your capable hands,
to prod and poke, stab or stroke,
however you desire,
‘cause open surgery costs a bomb,
and our love has since retired.
Intrusion
Amazing how
the growls of thunder
crush and shake my fizzy dreams,
pull back the ring
and fire their jets of consciousness,
head-to-head with lightning,
fighting, biting,
gnashing and gnarling,
in a blinding confrontation.
The night, meanwhile, in terror of war,
hugs its tail beneath the bed
and whimpers.
5am and counting…
That midnight we spoke of,
and marvelled at its clothed array,
it looks so timid in the eyes of nocturnals,
who bake their silver skins in moonlight,
and sew their seeds amidst the dew
to farm a golden promise
and harvest us a fiery dawn
that breaks atop unrested eyes
like stars on their horizons,
whose heavy lids and padded sheets
can’t hide the glare of morning.
Unholy Sabbath
Our tale begun the seventh sun,
forever well, forever young,
the raspy tunes of poison sung,
and hungry thoughts see logic hung,
begun, begun,
the sex and sun
that clasped the air the fire had hung,
and through the cries the ashes sung:
forever well, forever young.
The library
There is a hazard to thinking your thoughts aloud
when slurping on tea.
The quick “by God” is soon regretted
as I struggle to stop my coughs from escaping;
better to choke to death than draw attention now?
It’s poetic. It’s coincidental. It’s a gift and a curse.
I’m in a haven of wonder, with eyes on the prowl.
To my left, and in front (who knows what’s behind),
the flight and the fancy,
hand-in-hand, side-by-side.
I imagine it’s what dreams are made of,
but without the drunken courage of lucid dreams,
by which I mean the reckless abandon
that so often leads to sex or death;
caught in the middle-ground,
alive and aroused.
What now for this timid adoration?
It’d be easy to blame rules for non-action;
the passive but beating heart is well-trained in excuses.
Should I dare a whisper,
or a language-less approach?
These signs demand we linger,
and harbour all our words.
Unprepared
A darker day grows grey and cold.
Behold the icy mass,
the crass and unforgiving chill
that bows to no lighter step
or salty precaution;
it’s us who cower
and slip upon its glazy eye
with which it weeps
a blackened sheet
beneath its white mascara.
Fall victim to the winter’s eye
and cry your neatly frozen tears
to a howling air of disregard,
for nobody here can hear
nor see you ‘neath their many furs
and shoes not made for Winter.
Young at heart
We sat beneath a makeshift tent,
pulled taut by far too many lines of string
that crossed and tied in knots and bows
to anything that let them,
and shared a moreish banquet,
feasting on the food and words,
till all we had were chocolate stars
and kisses by the dozen.