On Sunday

On Sunday. pic

 

a silhouette, misty cut

in darkness out of light

on the shelf, is night

 

and from the flat body

withholding dreams

eyes see

 

that no star

is a vision beyond recorded light

but the diamond black shine

 

where pinkness

pervades the window pane

making chilly contours

 

in the swollen, gifted glass

that reminds departing souls

that night can hold fire

 

as it descends  slowly below

eyelashes and lids surrendering

to shadows and sleep

and in the morning

and in the morning. pic

 

I sit playing at words and looking

for their ruined meanings while

above me rain detaches itself from the moods

that are clouds that linger in doom

and laugh as they get lighter and pull away

to a heaven that smiles on the other side of the world

and upside down other people find congress

in immaculate thoughts just like mine

though all of it is, of course, unknowable

and that sussurating sound of damp pellets on glass

is soothing and somehow washes away

the stain of grief – that echo

that seems to last, cloying like a partner in a sensual dance

guiding me with soft fingers into vice

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.

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.

Returning as ever to sender

returning-as-ever-to-sender

Poetry is the sound the soul makes

as it exits your being

Our lives are turned around and around

like whispers in the alphabet

We are the random strokes

of a larger love

that seeks and lingers

and crashes on a distant shore

feeling always for entirety

whilst clinging to the roots

So yes, we are small, yet

we glimpse it all.