a tendency to lie

a tendency to lie. pic

 

 

our thoughts float

heavy in air so easily polluted

that they go as blind quislings in search

of a harbour that they can attach to and berth

for they seek comfort too

and we, lazy souls,

are not their best keepers

as we breath lustily with a desire to satisfy

the vainglorious self

when generosity would better serve

our shared experience

R.I.P.

R.I.P.

 

to all of that

loquacious man

you spent so much

time in air

with stories that sailed

on perfumed winds

close to the edge of reason

and frequently beyond

but the fuel you used

high octane stuff

was poison

so when you sucked

you swallowed tainted fuel

and lit a flare

that could only ever do one thing

gutter, stutter or fizzle out

and you reached all three

now you leave

a crater on the moon

one holed sock

and a legend

that could never be.

Day tripper

 

Day tripper. pic for poem

somewhere else

the sun shines

a person smiles

 

 so today I am drawn

to over there

where they breath different air

 

 because this sky frowns

blank and grey and sobbing

I am being robbed

 

 by a rolling crescendo

of  unruly  water

 that parades noisily on glass

 

 mocking all the barriers

 like stone, metal, or any canopy

that would forbid it

 

but still I long

for sunshine

and warm, wet lips

 

somewhere else

that will harbour me

in moments like this

Breaks it

Breaks it. pic

 

this howling wind makes the sound of denial

edging and barging at the sides

of everything that has

the temerity

to even co-exist

it is like a beast contained but

I enjoy it’s song

always changing shape

escaping, seeking

breathless in its own anomaly

                                                of sound

I can imagine frontiers re-arranged

whole empires usurped

before the political elites are made aware

and how fun that would be

as the wind lifts off their suits and

shames them

their stolen respectability strewn

across frontiers and fences

undergarments on overhead lines

storm Georgina I would bow to thee

Destroyevski

Destroyevski. pic

 

It is all as it ever was

despite the incremental improvements

the sense of loss persists as though now

has been appropriated

and I sit in the circle of loss

whatever that is

and fret at the perimeter of sense

though really all meaning has been dis-emvowelled

leaving me with the parched bones

inexpertly sifting for meaning

and trying to divine a process

in this continuum of doubt

that the believer in me might adopt

in favour of the heretic who dances on the fringes

alluring in weak moments

Is this conscience?

Or fear that I may drown in self pity

at the lock-gates of my heart

turning the waters into a whine.

The anatomy of moments.Two.

The anatomy of moments. Two. pic

 

Melodic slap of dripping water

the sigh of an old door complaining in the hall

the dog dreams in her basket

a mother calls

a father winces

two lovers kiss

a red slash in the sky of excited molecules

and in the desert, sand accepts the heat

while foreign tongues curve and stroke their given air

We are in the domain of otherness