I am the news

Me. I am the news. pic for poem

 

I am a sculpture

waiting upon reason, mercy and miracles

to mould me and make sense of each

passing moment that renders me as small

 

I am an echo

of nothing more than memories that slink

in the undergrowth of  my own propaganda

and threaten my neck with a sensual constriction

 

As spirits go

I am evaporating on the back of so many

disappointments

that a ghost would wail at the iniquity

of living in this entanglement

 

but I am immune

as a rogue infection to clinical intervention –

a bacteria so fit that healthy cells

emigrate to other hosts and leave me isolated

in my own member state

 

I am dilute

as my age dictates

that blood relatives die around me

and I take the calls of surviving kin

and enter in to their ‘arrangements’

 

I am the understudy

for my impending future, the heir apparent

to a ‘long wait’ that others may remark

was lived in haste and might in time improve

Traces

Traces. pic for poem

 

distortions of the real world are glimpsed

in the fading light from planets we cannot reach

we writhe and moan at fallen beauty

exaggerations of form that illuminate our limitations

like

soft green moss on the leeward side of a fallen branch

as if beauty would adhere to the rules of an auction

where the gavel comes down and makes a pronouncement on taste

though the ‘blind bids’ are king in the market place of ART

your thoughts kind sir/madam are as nought

you may keep them to yourself when

the only margin for error is poverty

and if you inhabit that space you are inadmissible – hard fact

for beauty that has form can be traded

but the peasant must be willing to sweat in order to admire

the finer things and dream – to aspire

and chase shadows that even the rich are aware of

because in the shallows there is a harbour

where dreams and boats drown in

far removed from honest toil

Damage in transit

 

Damage in transit.pic for poem

 I live on the border of reason

often struggling not to disappear

from the frontiers of hope that sometimes

seem so far away

 

There are days when the emotional weather

is close to overwhelming

and sand bags around the senses

are in danger of a breach

 

Then life becomes so tiring

because, by any measure

especially those that I impose

everything falls short

 

and I am left in the claw of dismal

a tightening fist that excludes

light and hope

that lingers in the gaolers stare

 

For moments like these

are death

as I reluctantly wear the symbols of life

Why do I bear this grudge?

 

Why am I so famished

so torn

bereft

a living. Dying thing.

Fay de Way

Fay de Way. pic for poem

 

she sat amid

the hot, fast breath

of escaping beauty

adoring her own brazen image

in lights and a mirror

that would soon forget her

 

the punters in their prowl of seats

alert to form and hungry in

the animal kingdom

just out of sight of the bait

shortly to be released into

a wilderness of unspent desire

 

then on to another gig

a pole, a stage and hungry eyes

leering at the inflation of flesh

in the loan to value contract exacted

as they gather in the cash

for moonlight and velvet

 

the hunters swoon

and track back to the bar

order in another libation

for another excuse to loosen

the conventions that exist

in that particular safari park

Longing

Chess Mates. I have this sense of impending doom.

 

day by day

the long column

of little steps

ascends, as if

 

no greater power could command

nor small urge arrest

the strident pattern

of controlled desire

 

while sleep conceals

the gnawing pang

daylight reveals the currents

that play with a pain

 

no two thoughts can unwind

without a third that questions

sweet reason

with a sneer

 

and so we live in danger

here and now

and cite past treason

to re-affirm weakness, as if

 

derision was the message

on a welcome mat

as we attempt

to douse the fire

 

and put quiet to bed

the questions

that linger in the threads

and fabric of scented pillows

 

 

so,  sleep well with demons

children please

your softly moulded bodies lay limp

without due diligence

 

as those dreams fade

mutate

and pass into a troubled, yet

forgotten history