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Beached boat on Brigthon beach

 

dissonance

that disrupted space between my ears

that informs an ever hungry brain

the interpreter of senses

and those impulses

the drivers of my being

Oh captain guide me

but I have said these things

had these thoughts

for ever, forever my pernicious

insecurities

Oh captain let me inhabit

your shoes

let me dissolve into your clothes

your ribbons and your certainty

and plot a course that might stretch

with ports of call

from A to Zee that has a burning arc

and goes eventually to deep pacific blue

unerringly

So. Invite me to sit at your groaning table

with all the other grateful ghosts

Pillow talk

Pillow talk . pic for poem

 

that young man still visits me

in dreams and the haunts of insecurity

wherein I am needy and fearful and seek

a hand to take me, a gesture to reassure

that there is a safe place out there

where I will not be mocked or measured

and made to cry

the ghost of my father’s taunts

are the lingering death rattles of his demons

unleashed again to dominate and destabilise the line

my hapless chromosomes, the links and nerves

of my cradled brain all set to fuse –

how incredible that I am saddled

even as my own light goes dim

with the furies my father deliberately laid down

so today I fight to be complete and rummage

in the box of my component parts – looking

hoping to find a ‘peace’ of sorts

and hand it down to my own sons

another hospital visit

Another hospital visit. pic

 

love lies bleeding

yes, I’ve said that before

but the internal wounds

they slice at hope

shape misery, that growing thing

as it mutates – a lava lamp of swelling gloom

wherein light casts little

by way of illumination

and all the little things

others may say and try to do

amount to nought

because inside thoughts collide

with doom – an intractable slide away

into an awful fairground

where light and noise crackle and spit

dodgems bump, grind

internal organs slither

and laughter once evoked by the ride

inverts and spills

lays down a tear

reflected in psychedelic light

blood red

a premonition in an anti-septic room

before the lights go out

Home

Home. A poem

 

wind-tied molecules cling to a park bench

their aggregated jewels drawing colour

from soft morning light

as the dogs and their owners stroll by

oblivious mites in the bigger picture

set fair between their couches and other dreams

and so

this moment in time is just an interlude

a duty woven into the fabric of responsibility

whence in truth all moments go

absorbed into “a life”

whose fragments are the working parts

of a mosaic

the carpet upon which we tread

it’s magic threads and woven messages

all ultimately left behind the door

darkness descending with the flap

the last post resounding on the mat

and emptiness obscures everything finally

all of those things we carelessly overlooked

those messages that were always in plain sight

gone from Welcome to Good Night

as if

Barbie dolls

 

 

they needed permission to be exuberant

repression and prejudice joyously exposed

flaunts publicly in the face of all that approbrium

and dances in the streets

of a capital city alive – stripped of the nods and winks

the brothers and sisters and in-betweeners

make a riot in plain sight

the anarchy of self evident truths

rituals and history unstitched to reveal

reality made to lurk in the mainstream

a marching band with glitter and horns

tattoos and stencils, face- paint and flamboyance

defiantly, brazenly, a baby suckling at a breast

the  parade polishing itself as it progresses

a serpent in a rainbow that pulses and says

look at me

a flexed, honed torso wearing only a gold posing pouch

and on his head a fan of barbie dolls

next to him a woman – the two of them – an exhibit

a romance in a cameo of the human race

everywhere the promise of a crescendo

and nowhere the commonplace

this then a reflection of everything we can ever hold dear

the many questions and troubled faiths conjoined

as if

My amour-plated heart

My amour-plated heart. pic

 

I am curious in a casual way

to enquire within

to knock at the door behind which

failed space and ruins lurk in shrouds

grief looms and guilt skitters not being quite

so apologetic

and if I were to enter in

would I trip and drown in tears spilt of love

lost in the commonwealth of desire sold short

the skirting boards and rough hewn timber prone

to splinter; a sea then, of waste and recrimination

and having entered in

would I seek solace in quiet things like thoughts or prayer

to unberth me from  the quay so that I could float

on principals and occupy untainted  air

to be a visitor, a welcome guest treading on the hearth

and be comfortable contained within the walls

and would I, so ensconced

be able to declare my love unflinchingly

offering up the dregs along with the spoons

and silverware; could I admit to all of it

and  suffer my lips to say- I love you?

Easter Sunday. Warsaw. 2018

Easter Sunday. Poem. Picture

 

they could be a line of Pilgrims

stretched on the flat horizon below

an amorphous sky clinging damply to heaven

back-packs and offerings in step

eager with votive desire to blend into

the city landscape where

everything is closed

except the churches

open minds

and hands

craving chocolate

Later, as night claims the shadows

the municipal facade of a building

is washed in reverent light;

a better man would know the Pope,

so travellers are never left in doubt

the insistent summons

carrying on into the night

Not if nor when nor never then…

 

Not if nor when nor never then... pic

nourished by the sounds they make

I go on

blindly, more in hope than

 with any resolution that could give me strength

 for they seem to rise and fall

with reason

whatever that tidal condition is

and I puff and pant

metaphorically

on the diaphragm of this worlds’

bleeding conscience

never sure whether I have

enough words

to fill the space vacated

by reason

whose box of tricks and verbal tics

confuse me, refuse me

make waste where there was scant

room for loss

and though I am mostly moribund

I have such faith in beauty

like the perennially scorned lover

who draws the line at suicide

I continue to weave in the traffic

of words

trailing in their vapour, their scent

in thrall to an elusive sense

of reason.

How sad

How sad. pic

How sad

the ego clings to the fringes

of what is left

remembering in the pallid glow of reality

that the past was a better place

invested with the best of memories

still electric, still with the power to pull

old bones with their cloak of decaying cells

onto the back of an old motor bike

and ride, demented, without a helmet

into the wall of some past glories

How sad

that the epitaph may be spoiled

if the truth came out

that vanity was the ultimate fuel

and not a single prayer for peace

that split skin and blood

were attended to in the urgent blue

of flashing lights

and trained hands transferred the body

to a bed in a place that was

not home

How sad.