Posts Tagged ‘Poetry’

A twelfth full and skinned over.

June 18, 2017

Oblong obelisk and I am unable to attend, though your flavour is lemon and my eyes are beyond the hedge. Open this utterance with your spacious can opener, I love you and this is the result of damaging trollop chews as long as we are alive, though I would better go horse riding than remain in this room without you. Never forget that I am indispensable and this road is much better than the one in the story. Heat and rain, I stand here or sit there on the roof away from destiny. Remember the sound of seconds, sleep please wake attention. Suppression and beyond another form of deliberate hannibal resource cream. This must stop but by now there are many amps cramming subtitles and kiss the carpet those feet, running faster than the pram, stop again! Believe me, please don’t go. Run with me and then, take a step into this cold water where the bites of my undeveloped sister take more action than the same sort of attitude we had in the last remembered style. Parlance be minded and useful to the dame and doctor, I always state beyond fate that this time I never had enough and you stole it don’t laugh, I quite started falling inambulant. Force it.

Last night, I dreamt that I was living with an unpleasant stranger.

June 18, 2017

A living body, a person of a very firm consistency, concentrated like a stock cube of life, concentrated in all precious explosive potentials, of exploring the wilds of creative discovery that only persistent travel through layers of observation can grasp! Yet within the most moderate form, a mobile perception, alert and open to matching persons with routes of development. Astounding in complexity of consideration for others, these things can be missed, because they don’t shout, they are softly passing and are hidden to those who don’t seek them out.

Consistency solid form of a size that fits, of a potential that fits the hope of my belief, living at levels that open to love others, not collapse to fear them. Offering journeys of philosophical meaning, not a car glide with inane and paranoid commentary.

All of my life I have needed you, the meaning of the universe – if one person could ever address that meaning, so moderate, so gentle, such an unexpected array of notes.

I am a person of roses, of dancing and of dreams. Of restless analysis, will to moral observations, watching and following and listening to you listening to me. Another body moving through the space reflexively defined as space. What do others see?

Brick Brain

May 25, 2017

A voice, a commentary, blocks of antiquity,

A desert island that holds sway, commands me.

Voice of asphyxiating stupidity, again, still talking!

Constructions, revisited, or newly built, all false.

The basis of communication,  belief system, false.

The aim is for a personal story that triumphs, not for truth.

Shock me again? Shock me with a story of my life that is invented?

A dramatic complex put-down judgement, or clumsy abusive accusation.

I see no point archaeological reincarnation, ancient stupidity.

 

Made

April 18, 2017

Eroded, ragged, losing its print in the air, sanded by the action of the wind that flaps it across the ground, softened by the rain. Carrier of symbols, wrapper and container, recipient and ground for marks.

Keeper and kept, multiple leaves pressed together, pressed against different dust jackets, dust emitted and collecting. Collected and collector of finger grease, skin, saliva, sneezes, tears, blood and beverages.

Fingers, your fingers touching, directing an instrument, your heart beating, your eyes burning with a distant solar light. Your legs and feet walking past the paper in the gutter, in the bins, on shelves, on tables and on the seats of trains.

Landscape

April 17, 2017

Barely raining, a troop of three of us head for Tesco Express, the route follows the line of a sheer drop, railed off by some concrete posts and thick gauge galvanized poles. Beyond is quarry which has been reclaimed by plant life, its earth consists of yellow clay and sandstone and I was told as a child that a fossil of a coelacanth had been found there. Now nettles, brambles and stickybudded sycamore trees rise above the bank, while bluebells and flame orange calendula heads laugh from the human tippage. Far below, deeper nettles, goose grass and rosebay willow-herb become one with hawthorn and spindle bushes, the blanket of spring green stretching far across the valley into the dim urban bricks and the grey feet of the Clent Hills, punctuated only by the unnaturally long white carcass of the Dudley Hospital. At least eight men must have heaved the safe to the brink of the precipice and probably ran pushing and kicking through the brambles, to make sure it landed deep into the thickets. Those same men whose destiny lies in that hospital, outside the main doors still hooked up to drips sucking on cigarettes held to their lips by their remaining mates.

Aunt Ruth

April 14, 2017

On the threshold of visible, a paler sort of shadow in darker air, solid with a slight sheen – that was her under the seat of a chair, behind the pine cupboard in the middle of the room.

Two cats hunting for the first time in the screaming stench of mice, sending round eyes flashing to every surface, ears swiveling, whiskers angled in a fury. Their long bodies stretch up, their soft paws spring and land a silent thud, ever moving, the first time knowing real work.

Aunt Ruth was my grandmother’s aunt, the bulbous heavy turned legs of her table once more fill their own meaning.

Cat, in the tactile silence of night time. Petrified wooden balusters, bent laths, the chairs of my childhood night creepings, though no fear, now that my mission is my own and I am in the employ of my two hunting cats.

The seven ghost cats of 1929, murdered by drowning in Aunt Ruth’s boiler, a crime against the beaded dress of my grandmother, Aunt Ruth calling their names, where is dear Putta?

My cats meet their lives, their purpose, alight in the legs of the table, in landing on the table, in sitting under the table with twitching tail.

Finite

April 10, 2017

The spring is a shock, I feel guilty to have lived beyond the dark small days into the blue sky that glides over the shimmering glass of rectangular authoritarian lies.

The hazy passing car afternoons where the self-conscious poor, hunch over our Formica tables, tea and leathery excuses, of buns. No matter about the silver soaring flights of the busy.

Yet still, exhausted I sit in someone’s semi-public back seat, he says I look tired out,  with a lisp, as I am driven through the back streets and the traffic of the match or no match and the radio sport and the Hollies. I am both leader and most vulnerable, this dangerous ride on the back of an eagle is easy and I don’t care if I fall off as the violence in my father’s van left me accustomed to accept death in a vehicle.

Offering

April 7, 2017

 

So I discovered that I can be a good listener and a good conversationalist. So much so that she who was unsure whether even to look at me, spoke for half an hour and would have for longer, and when I said it was lovely to talk to you, she hugged me.
So, I don’t always have to be the one who does all the saying, all the confessing, as some people need me more than I need to fill them up with my life, like I do to a very few people.
There is a reason for this.
There are quite a number of people who want to say a lot to me.
The thing that we both seemed to be reeling in shock about was: time flying, you look back at the past thirty years and think where has my life gone?
We agreed.
I have known her since I was three years old, when I had freshly landed upon this planet, and I soon found her strange brick house part of it.
Her concrete floored veranda with a fridge and cat food dried in the sun and a bluebottle buzzing the top windows. She would love to have a cat for company now, “They are more independent than dogs!” but this road would cause her so much fear and worry that it wouldn’t be worth it.

 

Empty

March 28, 2017

For a second, I could feel the house as empty, an exhilarating expanding silence.

Un-tied opportunities, no restrictions, lucid future comets firing, in any space I turned to.

The objects that habitually mock my captivity, suddenly promising life, life as lived by people who I can’t even imagine.

The clinging, brooding, criticizing, blaming, foreboding force at which, I recoiled my neck into my chest, tightend my esophagus, my shoulders, leg muscles and held my breath, since some point in the mid 90s when my childhood torment not supplanted by happiness, had actually transferred to a position much more tightly bound.

Might have been gone in that glimpse of surroundings, altered.

One

March 22, 2017

You are the moon and I am a pool of water on the earth.

I watch you come and go and disappear for long stretches.

When you are full for one brief stilled night, the air is dry, you shine, lighting the grasses where blue shadows collect.

Dry ice so sweet I can smell the perfection of particles, your streams of light.

I can hear the beams you make, radiate strongly across space into the atmosphere.

Burst into glowing visibility above my reflecting skin, penetrate lying water of the newts, to sparkle in the sand.

And I try to absorb all I can of you, to flow into you, to become part of you, dearest moon!