the very picture of living health,
apples and cherry-blossoms
walk with you
even in witching hour
september smiles on the dusty road
home.
crafting fictions in your
head full of bath salts and a bath full of
sour lemons.
every night worked to the bone of your
bedsit empty room no light
no light.
but bees still follow your footsteps,
the very picture of living health
spring is what
they
call
you
dressed in a pinafore
smile, dining for one
with the windows open.
subway bison
rattles the cage
of four poster bedsit smile.
glass half-full
always,
trickle-brim
catch it
kissing the sidewalk street-
steps that lead straight
back
to you.
glass pitcher
weeping on the
window-sill
cashmere sweater
and carnations
(no-one
coming home)
candle burning by the window
candle burn
enamel tub
drown it.
Winter. Was it all just death
and hibernation?
Surely the cold kept us clear,
alert, alive.
Woke to the sounds of rain
striking buckets on the patio
and wrapped this skin
in last year’s embrace.
I was a North pole
staring at windows,
at far away things.
You were resolute,
scraping remains
into the sink.
And through the frost
we could barely even see.
The wind outside was indifferent
to our demise
Like a dog shivering in the snow,
waiting patiently for his breath to
halt.
Never wanted to be unconscious to the seasons,
forcing reason from the sunshine and
blunting the sharp cornice of conscience.
Never asked to be so jaded as
not to see a sycamore roasting in the spring,
or to miss a remark of humility from a bastard.
Don’t want the piercing gaze of strangers
to frost over like a winter solstice.
Glad to still see cartoon smiles
on the executives’ sleeve,
or a priest coughing and spluttering
all over the pulpit
like a heathen.
Never wanted to be bound by state or reason,
so I forced an axe into a willow and
sapped its marrow clean;
just to see the beauty in dirt.
These days are sweet like wine:
honeysuckle dipped in vinegar
fleshed out and served on a platter
for our amusement.
Through the eyes of love, I became the crow.
You were always a sparrow on the sleeve:
not too beautiful but kept the right company.
Saw you move through the motions of Sunday
washing peaches in the kitchen;
patterns of swans woven into
the fabric of your dress.
I sat perched upon on a stool,
close to the doorway,
ready to take flight.
Cups left to soak,
wash me away
with dishwater abandon.
To just be leftover fruits
rotting in the easy sunlight,
I would endure these notions.
Scent of Colombian roast and perfume,
sends us back
through the pastures of past
when the plumage of this white shirt
made me strong in the sun.
These feathers now clipped
and hung out to dry.
Your eyes invite the sweet motions of april,
into the boughs of that pale body.
Shedding clothes and skin,
to reap the deep canyons of spring.
We made a small incline to climb inside
a violet bloodstream that swallows us whole.
The bedsprings well exercised,
sunshine sliding in through slats in the curtains
crosses the floor to spreads its wings.
The farther we fall, the faster reason creeps
into that subtle entrance.
Drags these bodies into the light,
naked and glistening.
With a pocked graze on my arm
and paper skin stretched across these fingers
I took a bus out west.
Spent most of my time staring at windows
In a little seaside town
on the coast
where women hang up their sheets,
and men stare vacantly at the wild roots
sprouting from their children’s mouths.
One for every flower upturned
beneath the cool gaze of the porchlight.
Spring seems a long way off
in this stitched cashmere sweater.
Waited in a Greyhound terminal
like a bronze relief baking in the sun
Only to see time pass me by
like a stranger.
Saw a fire in the park today;
brimstone fists of flame
tortured the hillside
as we sidled past in a gift-wrapped
automobile Mercedes.
Returning home from a night of
Japanese lanterns and foul play;
like the epilogue to some sordid story.
Liquor-stained tongues and belief,
stripped from the bitter-sweet corners of
daylight.
Time is cast
into the great caverns of recollection:
fields of nightingales
stained sheets and setting suns
Stayed close to an artificial fire
with a rose in my teeth.
Today is all purged slumber,
Funny valentines twisting round these ears.
Hell, even the trees seem poignant today.
So he walked, roaming the sidewalks beneath the great cluster of brick and mortar, stubbing a newly lit cigarette out underfoot and looking to the sky. He saw in the fluorescent bulbs of the high streetlamps watchful eyes raining down upon him, unyielding in their brightness. All along the traversed sidewalk they followed him, like some horrendous spotlight revealing him naked to the dawn. The cars parked along the avenue now became extensions of the prison in which he walked, mechanical beasts boxing him in, pushing him up against the brick porches of dimly lit houses.
Each passing stranger confirmed his fears that there was no personal life beyond that which he created: nothing beyond the trestles of his own imagination, the fictions he subscribed to every night as he stared at the lamp on the dresser, the orange fluorescent bulb which signalled light. Light. Light in all its false glory and poisonous hope.
The sidewalk harkened him back to reality. He turned on the corner of Lambert Street, keeping at a swift pace to dull the chill. Stone structures surounded him, austere in their stature, their absurdity: to think man had lifted these blocks from the earth into something whole, something tangible to be touched and lived in, the very idea was devastating in its actuality. He felt exposed, vulnerable to the void which lay outside the confines of his own mind and the cobbled street on which he travelled blindly.
deer-headphones asked: Your poetry is exquisite; thank you for sharing it with the tumblr world. Your style is truly uplifting and unique. Glad I found some beautiful poetry on this site, it's very hard to find these days! May ask what inspired your most recent one? "The truest lies ever told imprinted in your tender place" is one of the best lines I've seen in any poem.
Thanks for the positive comments. To be honest it’s the first time I’ve had the guts to post any of it, so it’s great to hear such encouraging feedback.
The latest piece concerns the nature of guilt and the way good intentions can cause one to act in curious and underhanded ways. The tender place refers to a sexual encounter, and the lies refer to what we tell each other in the privacy of our own beds; where our actions are unseen by the outside world. A place where the physical self tries to expiate any emotional crimes through physical touch, but eventually the futility of those actions renders the struggle useless. But feel free to interpret it however you wish, and thanks for taking the time to read it.
