Hold on. Hold tight.
Become of me the journey’s end,
where finally it settles in,
embeds in skin, and wriggles deep;
begun in sleep, where dreams ascend
and bubble through the porous guise,
unveiling sparks behind my eyes,
encouraging a far idea –
from smoky holes they flea, in fear,
into my arms. I work to calm,
and gain their trust.
They may. I must.
Pass me by
Pass me by, but do not slow
or come to rest within arm’s reach,
just let me feel without a touch,
and swear your heart won’t let me go.
Look for me, but do not stare
or smile with both your lips and eyes,
just say it all with silent sparks,
and know I dream of what you dare.
Think of this, but do not sigh,
or hide your blues in summer rain,
just find your knots and bows untied;
come look for me, and pass me by.
Decisions
You ask why now I question?
For years we’ve sidelined inquisition,
and never dared or cared to test
or tease the beast we left to rest.
You ask what now has altered?
But truth be told, we’ve always faltered,
and failed to think of what’s to come
or plan the path we’ve yet to run.
You ask how you can change?
But I don’t want you rearranged,
for every piece of you in place
is finer than the deftest lace.
You ask when? But I contest!
I need to lay this pain to rest.
The road ahead forks like a prong;
to drop a knee, or move along.
Eating roses
Bruges
The garden rises from the river,
swallows up my pasty feet,
and climbs my belly with a flower,
claws as sharp as scent is sweet.
Escaping to my bedroom,
I hide in my retreat,
and keep the window half ajar
to flavor my defeat.
From every frame and gutter,
the edges come to bleed.
Down in the river garden,
the leaves and ripples feed.
Prisms
We make excuses for our love,
for any chance to sit beside
or qualify another ride
into the city’s heart;
we are the blood, the pulse, the red
and present danger, underneath
and lingering in lingerie,
and glassy irises, stones in hand,
a parallel refraction splits
in prisms from our diamond gaze,
unbreakable, save for the brief
and soft together that closed our eyes.
Subtlety
I’ve never been good with subtlety,
far better I play outside your window,
or ride across the country just to hold your hand,
send you a dozen roses before we even met
in the flesh,
or save you from death,
for any less than that is lost
and you’ll never know my foolery,
daft attempts at Hollywood,
’cause someone sold me subtlety.
Digging
How is it in the mortal night
we find such black reflection,
and come to question our complexion
by the dying light?
Throughout the giddy glow of day
we play in blue refraction,
and bright distractions blind our actions
till the shying ray.
Exhausted by denial
we crawl with coiled tails,
and cease upon the meaty pile
where red things go to pale.
Upon the heap of death,
we reach for one last time,
in hope that we’re not just a step
for other souls to climb.
For surely there’s salvation?
And surely there’s a line?
Somewhere within these desperate words
I’m digging for divine.
By my side
If I dug this out in twenty years,
would I remember what it was like,
or understand the feeling that saw me able
and willing to write, even late into night,
after my darling had long since retired?
She rests on my chest,
her lips rise with each breath;
one inch closer to kissing her smile.
Confessed
My hour is dark and wrapped in toil;
awaking stark, but soon adorned
in all the tasks my midnight oil
could not a dent or scratch have worn.
This back grows strong with all I hold –
it’s been so long since lighter loads –
but there’s no song where woes are old.
Don’t dwell upon well-travelled roads.
By dusk I rest,
I’m fully dressed,
the day repressed within my chest,
impressed upon the unexpressed
and writhing words I’ve yet confessed.
—
Deliver me to temperance,
and drive this from my skin.
I’ve long lived full of reverence
for those who live in sin.
Recluse
A friendly fog upon my mind,
it hogs the sheets and wriggles,
so rises me to go unwind
with blades, with ducks and ripples.
At ease, we land, a tea in hand,
the cosiest debriefing.
At once, I’m grand, the freeze disbands,
as trees upon their leafing.
I’m Autumn now; an orange brow
comes loose, for how I tussle
and truce with winds that won’t allow
but one recluse unrustled.
House of Cards
Should I but follow suit,
and play my hand like you,
in spite of everything
I swore I’d never do?
Or learn to cheat at cards,
hold aces up my sleeves,
fake it ‘til I make it,
‘til everyone believes.
Just once I saw you twist
and dare to try for more.
You won, but then retired
to cells with welded doors.
That can’t be all there is;
four suits and royal peers,
sat in hands and waiting
for numbers to appear.
One by one you play them,
and build your house of cards.
But I would rather gamble
than lay in wait for guards.
Save the early hour
The early hour is much more calm;
a void in time split by alarm.
Careful steps in total black,
whisper soft that you’ll be back.
Slip shoes around your stretching toes,
and gently push the door to close.
Fill your lungs with untouched air,
and feel how still it settles there,
as if to quench a thirst unknown.
Alone you know each breath’s your own.
Perhaps the universe started so,
some restless spark just decided to go,
woke up before six, before one, before then,
crashing about, woke every quark in its den,
jumped into its shoes, and kicked down the door,
tore our through the darkness, to seek and explore,
and perhaps it is now settled here in my breath,
or in the palm of a hand that will save me from death.
Apathy
Lulled by false promises of comfort,
I take the hand of apathy
who leads me into a stuffy room,
sits me down,
flicks on the TV,
and shuts the door.
“There,” he smiles,
“isn’t that better?”
“Huh?” I manage,
unable to unstick my eyeballs from ten-eighty-p.
But that truer part of me pulls my head,
the glue stretching from my pupils ‘til breaking point,
then snaps,
pings,
slapping back into my skull
like the starter cord of a lawnmower,
my brain splutters into life,
puffing from the spongy grooves,
a throbbing, greying mass of matter,
self-aware once again,
and knowing that this is no day to be locked up inside.
