Across the sea on a sacred isle,
Two souls may merge, and hearts are smiling
To see what peace can surely endure
When given the space to love.
A rook with wings of tar has come,
Head of iron, feet like aerials
Reaching deep to fibres that hum
'Give them some space to love'.
A scorpion sifting sand with its claws
Adorns the sun with dazzling glances.
His faith in light is never undone,
Just give him some space to love.
TV screens once littered the surf,
Crackling hard with static surveillance
Of torture, soon made vapour to hearts
Given the space to love.
Labours spent on torturous spells
Only yield reciprocal hell
On bodies whom to each other mean well,
Screaming 'give us some space to love'.
Two boys row for the isle, heading west,
Oars in synch, caressing the ocean skin,
Equal and at harmony's breast,
Now granted the space to love.
On sands that soothe, Under skies that heal,
Hearts are calm, embraces firm
As the rooks and the scorpions whisper
'we've given them space to love'.
On sands that soothe, Under skies that heal,
Hearts are calm, embraces firm
As the rooks and the scorpions whisper
'we've given them space to love'.
On sands that soothe, Under skies that heal,
Hearts are calm, embraces firm
As the rooks and the scorpions whisper
'we've given them space to love'.
Given them space to love.
Monday 8 June 2009
Sunday 7 June 2009
Thursday 4 June 2009
Sunless
He says it's beautiful to love'
Handing me a bird.
Leaner than a dove.
Sharp as any word.
He says 'a kiss is heavier
Than the ruby in wine'
And that his faith is steadier
Than the square root of mine.
He says 'a march is futile;
A protest against the self.
I won't dance to any flute,
I won't fellate the crown of wealth.'
He says 'the trees are aerials
Transmitting to the sky,
The clouds are radio stations,
Vapour citadels' - a lie.
He says 'you might believe me.
You might refute my breath,
But in order to deceive me
You would have to cheat death.'
He says so many wondrous things,
Each grabder than the last.
The proffered bird extends his wings.
A stagnant age has passed.
He says to dive beneath his robe
To shelter me from time,
So clutching tight the bird, I dove
In sheets of satin crime.
Handing me a bird.
Leaner than a dove.
Sharp as any word.
He says 'a kiss is heavier
Than the ruby in wine'
And that his faith is steadier
Than the square root of mine.
He says 'a march is futile;
A protest against the self.
I won't dance to any flute,
I won't fellate the crown of wealth.'
He says 'the trees are aerials
Transmitting to the sky,
The clouds are radio stations,
Vapour citadels' - a lie.
He says 'you might believe me.
You might refute my breath,
But in order to deceive me
You would have to cheat death.'
He says so many wondrous things,
Each grabder than the last.
The proffered bird extends his wings.
A stagnant age has passed.
He says to dive beneath his robe
To shelter me from time,
So clutching tight the bird, I dove
In sheets of satin crime.
Fourth Wall
When the slipper gets thrown to the crowd have it known,
That when chinooks and choppers have scythed through and mown
Down our frivolous zest, that the one who's your best
Estimation of purity, has earthly feet, like the rest.
With a zeitgeist that's crumbling, a lustre that's tumbling
To shadow, in search of a half-light that suits,
And your skin like a sail, driven by toxic winds
Through dissenting territories whose cretins freely loot.
When he occupies you kindly with his gun,
And the stage lights dim to scarlet just for fun,
In refusal to illuminate the one.
'Don't get wasted in my shoes,
Don't come shackled to bad news,
When you know in your heart's purest cell
That this fourth wall's a window to artifice - can't you tell?'
With stray bacteria strafing below,
In the infertile, clamouring streets, did you know
That your lover's been scraping the grit from his teeth
With the tip of a whore's hard-earned stiletto.
Don't sketch blindly in my books,
Don't look kindly on those rooks,
When you know in your chewed-up pulpit,
That this fourth wall's a window to artifice.
That when chinooks and choppers have scythed through and mown
Down our frivolous zest, that the one who's your best
Estimation of purity, has earthly feet, like the rest.
With a zeitgeist that's crumbling, a lustre that's tumbling
To shadow, in search of a half-light that suits,
And your skin like a sail, driven by toxic winds
Through dissenting territories whose cretins freely loot.
When he occupies you kindly with his gun,
And the stage lights dim to scarlet just for fun,
In refusal to illuminate the one.
'Don't get wasted in my shoes,
Don't come shackled to bad news,
When you know in your heart's purest cell
That this fourth wall's a window to artifice - can't you tell?'
With stray bacteria strafing below,
In the infertile, clamouring streets, did you know
That your lover's been scraping the grit from his teeth
With the tip of a whore's hard-earned stiletto.
Don't sketch blindly in my books,
Don't look kindly on those rooks,
When you know in your chewed-up pulpit,
That this fourth wall's a window to artifice.
Tuesday 24 February 2009
New Notebook
The debut trample upon virgin
Parchment, tattooing the skin of a
Newborn, puncturing a fledgling slip of a
Cloud.
The pen a tongue tormenting fresh-laid
Concrete, in permanence and in
Taste (one hopes), the lightning rod with which
Fate is contrived by the cartographer.
The sky the taut skin of a
Bodhran from which all us aspirant
Fools rebound with pendulous frenzy when
Ego makes pompous claims.
The ground the gentle mortar, the
Pillow on whom all jolted heads must
Rest between grasps towards the
Aether, and long may we, as hope-filled
Imbeciles, try.
Parable
A crane affects a pout on razed terrain -
There's no-one to deliver to beyond!
Conceited motherfuckers, made terrine
By undiminished craving of The End.
The psychopomp redundant, writ in wind,
Frailer than sugar paper in the rain,
As human confit spread across the land
Makes all ecologies again serene.
Not having been traversed in days, the Styx,
It's floor dried-up, it's flora parched to shit,
Is marched upon by opportunist hicks,
Whose oubliette pallor, against their wit,
Illuminates the road's return to earth;
The Boatman, as defunct as feathered crane,
Aghast at this mass parody of birth,
Designs to toss himself into The Seine.
The rambling dead embark up spiral stair
A-tingle at the promise of return,
Remembrance fills staid lungs, the scent of air!
A lotus blooms in death's most ashen urn.
The earth attained, a miserable shuddered halt
Afflicts the hopeful dead, besieged to learn -
The earth's a fucking shit-hole, time to bolt -
Their preference, in eternity to burn.
My First Sonnet
Aborted on this sunless, tepid soil,
Bequeathed: all manner frailties of the blood,
Begat of guarders with intentions good,
Whose flaws, a generation, born to foil,
Alchemize moral silt from sorrow's oil,
Betrothed to idealism's puppy-ish flood
Before twilight's ever encroaching hood,
Wends saints and cynics knee-deep in turmoil.
Cadenza'd, one would plea, with skeins of hope,
Divested of the curfew's mauve-ish gaze,
Emboldened by constraint to steel our stride,
Collected and alone, our leprous grope,
(Depreciating in the blighted haze),
Embroiders 'Fuck you' on the devil's hyde.
The debut trample upon virgin
Parchment, tattooing the skin of a
Newborn, puncturing a fledgling slip of a
Cloud.
The pen a tongue tormenting fresh-laid
Concrete, in permanence and in
Taste (one hopes), the lightning rod with which
Fate is contrived by the cartographer.
The sky the taut skin of a
Bodhran from which all us aspirant
Fools rebound with pendulous frenzy when
Ego makes pompous claims.
The ground the gentle mortar, the
Pillow on whom all jolted heads must
Rest between grasps towards the
Aether, and long may we, as hope-filled
Imbeciles, try.
Parable
A crane affects a pout on razed terrain -
There's no-one to deliver to beyond!
Conceited motherfuckers, made terrine
By undiminished craving of The End.
The psychopomp redundant, writ in wind,
Frailer than sugar paper in the rain,
As human confit spread across the land
Makes all ecologies again serene.
Not having been traversed in days, the Styx,
It's floor dried-up, it's flora parched to shit,
Is marched upon by opportunist hicks,
Whose oubliette pallor, against their wit,
Illuminates the road's return to earth;
The Boatman, as defunct as feathered crane,
Aghast at this mass parody of birth,
Designs to toss himself into The Seine.
The rambling dead embark up spiral stair
A-tingle at the promise of return,
Remembrance fills staid lungs, the scent of air!
A lotus blooms in death's most ashen urn.
The earth attained, a miserable shuddered halt
Afflicts the hopeful dead, besieged to learn -
The earth's a fucking shit-hole, time to bolt -
Their preference, in eternity to burn.
My First Sonnet
Aborted on this sunless, tepid soil,
Bequeathed: all manner frailties of the blood,
Begat of guarders with intentions good,
Whose flaws, a generation, born to foil,
Alchemize moral silt from sorrow's oil,
Betrothed to idealism's puppy-ish flood
Before twilight's ever encroaching hood,
Wends saints and cynics knee-deep in turmoil.
Cadenza'd, one would plea, with skeins of hope,
Divested of the curfew's mauve-ish gaze,
Emboldened by constraint to steel our stride,
Collected and alone, our leprous grope,
(Depreciating in the blighted haze),
Embroiders 'Fuck you' on the devil's hyde.
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