The anatomy of moments (the first)

Tne anatomy of moments

 

stars, the shards of a shattered universe

cry, tear drops on a canvas of dreams

we shall never inhabit for they are

just echoes of a time long dead

 

it is all I have

and I have known love

but it is still a gaping

sense of loss

 

my mother’s endless encouragement

a vapour now that she has gone

my wit, my charm, my accomplishments

just crumbs on a well worn floor

 

my love of poetry

an idolatry for the patterns words weave

is always moderated by an X-Ray

that filters through me

 

looking for scar tissue and wounds

that might build a case

for a better model

more robust in the ways of the world

 

but these moments are

refugees in a crisis of confidence

bound in nightmares to roam

in uncertainty

 

programmed to return

wanton with a savage lust

to rent and sunder

where sunlight would prefer to rest.

Though sparks may fly.

Though sparks may fly. pic

 

he cut my chord with barren words

that echo even now when I

in my sixth decade find spite hidden

in memories

that wake me in the night

and know that my stump

that bit of me we call the soul

is grieving still and asking

plaintive questions knowing that

darkness will over-take every one

of my days

and lay waste to

the child who is still-born

within me.

 So I carry my own foetus unwillingly

in search of life

though in it’s sac, nightly,

I wake flinching at wounds

it’s memory holds intact

forever unleashing the last word

with a prick

to burst the tight skin

of my pride

 and damning with loveless eyes.

Ego a Go Go

Ego a Go Go

 

I am the morsel

A chatter box, blah blah

I’ll have a laugh

Forget the past

Those days that are now in ruins

 

And tears still run

Still come to visit

At times that are not appropriate

They are just calling cards

Markers of doused flames

 

And now the mist lays down

When birdsong punctuates

Silence and blank thoughts

Which are pre-cursors

To another day in flight

Expectant

Expectant. pic

I want more

That is my condition. My dread

I am the eager hunger

a lust of want on margins

imagined, never seen

Of echoes, shreds of neverbeens

dying coals and finite seams

that refuse to manifest.

Perhaps it is all pornography

it’s crooked lines on pure white paper

and stains on beauty where promises

were never kept.

What is left is a crust

of tears, wind-dried

a legacy that anthropologists will find

and with it kindly trace a history

from something

I never knew

Devon. Arch. View.

Devon. Arch. View. pic

lichen on old stone

it’s yellows and greens

in a texture of remembrance

add casual beauty to the aperture

of an arched window through which

one solitary sheep moves by inches

like a maggot across the sward

behind, though filling all the space

a clock ticks encircling me in the view

Bound by knowledge I struggle with

and anchored by all sorts of gravities

I accept an affinity

with that accumulating texture on the wall

and look up to see four more sheep

Where I sit, this place that faces

an old stone wall, ragged and thick

which was the slaughter-house of New Barn Farm

Outside, rough flagstones were the perimeter

of a killing zone. A way out of life

But now, swaying between the tick and tock

I count sheep. Innocent in the view

Castaway

Castaway

I am sat

stark naked on a sunday morning

reviewing the dark past,

and stewing

with those tangled, escaping memories

over my part in all of that.

And on a blank sheet of paper,

white, beside me, waiting, innocent,

a pubic hair.

Insouciant. Detached from me

lazing absently

Laughing at incongruity.