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.
Saturday, 21 February 2009
The Book Of Ting-Yin
First Stirrings
The trick I failed to pull tonight
Is caring about you less,
Like petroleum to gelignite,
I couldn't let love rest.
You are so much,
I have a hunch,
It's more than mutual.
Ear to conch,
A foreign conch,
They say we're beautiful.
Oh this fidgety, mundane life,
Who's my guarantor?
Surely not the pecking, hybrid damsels at my wings,
In whose musk I bathe, in whose cheap toiletries
I rustle for precious stones.
Lesson One:
I'm allowed to love. I'm allowed to be loved.
The tips of stalactites and stalagmites may meet,
Tongues on the night, erogenous, supple, flexing,
Absence making self-murder out of might.
How love blinds one to the borders of our illusory island.
How, in love, death seems a continent away to a blight-stricken landlocked naif.
How invective seems softened and stifled and sentences stray
As the beacon of his being orphans all agenda.
How, infatuated, I, brigadier, spaniel, squadron, collapse aghast at my capacity
To feel such splendour in such ways and nooks and gullies and slaughter such I've never glimpsed.
How insular have been my angled utterances prior to this ablution of my sweetened dereliction.
How I love him. Break the meter. I love him. Measure the breath. How do I love him?
Wholly, Holy, Hold me, Fix me like charcoal on a board.
I take flight from bald stasis when gifted, festooned with the grace-lit feathers of your love.
You stir, stiffen, steal and sustain.
Always.
The Wise Wind Within
Venus is bursting through mesmerized hearts who once grave may confessions of love now impart,
With scars on their hands, suckers lambasting plans, faith abound,
Angels with wounds that were wrought in the womb offer vigils, sobering, sure,
Down empty corridors And I know who they're...
Four knackered horses make pace along the prom, draw a chariot of chance with a reckless aplomb,
In search for the elder whom, untimely snatched, makes no sound.
Demons make bed in the absent one's head, coaxing visions, rabid, raw,
Of geldings, Squires and Whores and I know which they...
Are you my lover, my half-that-is-other, my steed, or none of the above?
Are you just there, to reciprocate care, which may sometimes just constitute love
In the eyes of one who desires it so...
Much has been said of the books that I've read, of the songs that I write, that I sing.
Less has been uttered of the mutterings and mumblings within.
Loneliness, crippling loneliness makes the mirror vomit hordes
Of arbitrary laws, and I know they're no
Goodness prevails over all of these ails, and I feel no remorse about words,
But where is the horse that inspired the rampage of the herd?
Angels and demons I pray that thee leave us to marry our resolve,
As one we may evolve to transcend what we
Aren't I bemoaning an abstracted loneliness? Aren't I forgetting to smile?
Are you and aren't you and can and can't I awhile,
Be content in the love that we've lent,
In the knowledge that it's far from spent,
I'll endeavour forever to lie amongst the heather, my heart beating sturdy and sure,
The ground at my feet I can weather the sleet in my eyes,
And this vow now demands a reprise...
...As I know the wind within is wise.
Statement of Intent in His Absence
I
Oh ye sick-lobbing seraphim of squalor, tossing roulette for crabs at the slaughterhouse,
Pushing desire around a cartographer's dumb thorax, like butter 'round a wok,
Drag me through the sieve of time and rinse me through the pores into now, where I throw
A shape-defining sheet over my neuroses, like an interrupted hard-on through teen duvet.
Oh grievous reticule of the eye, whose gizzard, drunk on idiocy spat blood into a porcelain sink,
Will my appetites lay caesura to my death sentence with any more surety than a machete's hack?
My chest an antiquarian cage whose captives stammer in tinfoil corsets, crepe paper caskets,
Tracing the outline of a real, beating heart, pumping, with relief, my genetic code, once more.
II
Oh my self! - murderer of mystique with a swine's scent for the truffle 'neath the tautest twilights,
Kicking this bitch called 'love', like blotting paper across a vast lake, elastoplast-ing the ozone hole.
Still, be sure, be sure, my wingspan is your rope bridge. What I love about loving is how uncertain
That I've always loved through such blistered vistas I am and remain.
Oh shit-kicking fibres of need, coiled into this coppiced font of craving: the brush of corpuscle,
Upon corpuscle, sweat's montage of marrow and this marriage of electrodes, fierce-burning.
I'll wrestle the Osmotic Bleed to the floor and seize back the crinkled aunts of my fingertips,
So as I may be the charming and cretinous fuck-up for whom you fell, instead of a different one.
Song For a Rainy Day
For six days full the Death Grimace tore at my skull,
With the fervour of barnacles goring a sullen hull,
And on the seventh day,
I either lifted the veil or,
Jilted the jailor, and quick-
Wilted, the bloomed onyx death-eater, my heart full.
Ah, the Death Grimace, for no poor cunt a smile,
The heart a four-chambered anchor,
North, dismay, East, dissent, South, despondency, East,
Distended self-import,
The gut-ego of a psychical eating disorder,
Flayed to marinate in the guilt of piteous introspection.
The Death Grimace, an ally when ailing inside,
No fucker wants on the street to intervene
With a face set like that of the lumen at the bed of the Styx.
Where once buoyant, beaming, a pith-less head-sheath rides
Like a yolk, on vine-strangulated shoulders,
An unabashed parody of pain's proud prowess.
Death Grimace, mercifully, has fucked off,
But in his wake, an opiate senselessness,
A gushing absence; the pallbearer's mask
Put coyly away in the emotional toy-chest
Until another incident masquerading as an event
Worthy of a response, occurs.
In the Conference Hall.
Sirens swimming about my head,
Making a voodoo doll from wine and bread.
High-time I got a razor to my head, like a monk.
Taking the wafer of shame upon my tongue,
Chirruping idly an arbitrary song,
Of cardboard guilt, choke it back, move along, how punk.
In dream, contrive essential vows with zephyrs, fauns,
In sweat is dislodged fever come the dawn,
So as my shackles shrunken in the morn, I rise, unsunk.
Station Gates
And slam-dunked into this tube of flesh like canned tuna,
I feel like I'm condescending to a severed neck stump,
Patting the cauterized stump-end in onanistic strokes
Like one would nurse awkwardly a grieving relative.
It'll be an OBE if I don't rape you at the station gates.
Schizoneiric
Last night in the fever cubicle I witnessed...
My childhood face for the first time since I wore it,
The same smile, the same hair, the same eyes,
Last glimpsed in the mirror when I bore them.
A high-five across decades -
'When sporting this tiny, unrefined mask,
Did I ever chance upon an oracular glance into
The face I now purport to call my own?' I ask.
In the fever cubicle, a dialogue entranced,
Amassing decades of enquiry in that glance -
Harbouring the same hopes and hypochondria? Check.
Ditto the constancy of craving for clarity.
Lucidity wears a nightgown in my dream,
Is this maturity thing a linear steal,
Or a Russian doll structure whose seams,
Are relinquished only in dreams' parochial heal?
Lucy stalks the corridors, hanging,
Her gown of night-spun muslin,
Loosely. White light crackles,
In the waking mist – her husband.
Seams peeled back like tape,
Onto whose history my boy face is etched.
Dreams engorge the plight of rape
Conferred upon the adult form. Is it not wretched?
Last night in the fever cubicle I clasped hands
With my acromealgious claw, in pact of union
Time's dissolved, but hangs all saline in the glands,
Secreted shyly not to breach the new communion.
The trick I failed to pull tonight
Is caring about you less,
Like petroleum to gelignite,
I couldn't let love rest.
You are so much,
I have a hunch,
It's more than mutual.
Ear to conch,
A foreign conch,
They say we're beautiful.
Oh this fidgety, mundane life,
Who's my guarantor?
Surely not the pecking, hybrid damsels at my wings,
In whose musk I bathe, in whose cheap toiletries
I rustle for precious stones.
Lesson One:
I'm allowed to love. I'm allowed to be loved.
The tips of stalactites and stalagmites may meet,
Tongues on the night, erogenous, supple, flexing,
Absence making self-murder out of might.
How love blinds one to the borders of our illusory island.
How, in love, death seems a continent away to a blight-stricken landlocked naif.
How invective seems softened and stifled and sentences stray
As the beacon of his being orphans all agenda.
How, infatuated, I, brigadier, spaniel, squadron, collapse aghast at my capacity
To feel such splendour in such ways and nooks and gullies and slaughter such I've never glimpsed.
How insular have been my angled utterances prior to this ablution of my sweetened dereliction.
How I love him. Break the meter. I love him. Measure the breath. How do I love him?
Wholly, Holy, Hold me, Fix me like charcoal on a board.
I take flight from bald stasis when gifted, festooned with the grace-lit feathers of your love.
You stir, stiffen, steal and sustain.
Always.
The Wise Wind Within
Venus is bursting through mesmerized hearts who once grave may confessions of love now impart,
With scars on their hands, suckers lambasting plans, faith abound,
Angels with wounds that were wrought in the womb offer vigils, sobering, sure,
Down empty corridors And I know who they're...
Four knackered horses make pace along the prom, draw a chariot of chance with a reckless aplomb,
In search for the elder whom, untimely snatched, makes no sound.
Demons make bed in the absent one's head, coaxing visions, rabid, raw,
Of geldings, Squires and Whores and I know which they...
Are you my lover, my half-that-is-other, my steed, or none of the above?
Are you just there, to reciprocate care, which may sometimes just constitute love
In the eyes of one who desires it so...
Much has been said of the books that I've read, of the songs that I write, that I sing.
Less has been uttered of the mutterings and mumblings within.
Loneliness, crippling loneliness makes the mirror vomit hordes
Of arbitrary laws, and I know they're no
Goodness prevails over all of these ails, and I feel no remorse about words,
But where is the horse that inspired the rampage of the herd?
Angels and demons I pray that thee leave us to marry our resolve,
As one we may evolve to transcend what we
Aren't I bemoaning an abstracted loneliness? Aren't I forgetting to smile?
Are you and aren't you and can and can't I awhile,
Be content in the love that we've lent,
In the knowledge that it's far from spent,
I'll endeavour forever to lie amongst the heather, my heart beating sturdy and sure,
The ground at my feet I can weather the sleet in my eyes,
And this vow now demands a reprise...
...As I know the wind within is wise.
Statement of Intent in His Absence
I
Oh ye sick-lobbing seraphim of squalor, tossing roulette for crabs at the slaughterhouse,
Pushing desire around a cartographer's dumb thorax, like butter 'round a wok,
Drag me through the sieve of time and rinse me through the pores into now, where I throw
A shape-defining sheet over my neuroses, like an interrupted hard-on through teen duvet.
Oh grievous reticule of the eye, whose gizzard, drunk on idiocy spat blood into a porcelain sink,
Will my appetites lay caesura to my death sentence with any more surety than a machete's hack?
My chest an antiquarian cage whose captives stammer in tinfoil corsets, crepe paper caskets,
Tracing the outline of a real, beating heart, pumping, with relief, my genetic code, once more.
II
Oh my self! - murderer of mystique with a swine's scent for the truffle 'neath the tautest twilights,
Kicking this bitch called 'love', like blotting paper across a vast lake, elastoplast-ing the ozone hole.
Still, be sure, be sure, my wingspan is your rope bridge. What I love about loving is how uncertain
That I've always loved through such blistered vistas I am and remain.
Oh shit-kicking fibres of need, coiled into this coppiced font of craving: the brush of corpuscle,
Upon corpuscle, sweat's montage of marrow and this marriage of electrodes, fierce-burning.
I'll wrestle the Osmotic Bleed to the floor and seize back the crinkled aunts of my fingertips,
So as I may be the charming and cretinous fuck-up for whom you fell, instead of a different one.
Song For a Rainy Day
For six days full the Death Grimace tore at my skull,
With the fervour of barnacles goring a sullen hull,
And on the seventh day,
I either lifted the veil or,
Jilted the jailor, and quick-
Wilted, the bloomed onyx death-eater, my heart full.
Ah, the Death Grimace, for no poor cunt a smile,
The heart a four-chambered anchor,
North, dismay, East, dissent, South, despondency, East,
Distended self-import,
The gut-ego of a psychical eating disorder,
Flayed to marinate in the guilt of piteous introspection.
The Death Grimace, an ally when ailing inside,
No fucker wants on the street to intervene
With a face set like that of the lumen at the bed of the Styx.
Where once buoyant, beaming, a pith-less head-sheath rides
Like a yolk, on vine-strangulated shoulders,
An unabashed parody of pain's proud prowess.
Death Grimace, mercifully, has fucked off,
But in his wake, an opiate senselessness,
A gushing absence; the pallbearer's mask
Put coyly away in the emotional toy-chest
Until another incident masquerading as an event
Worthy of a response, occurs.
In the Conference Hall.
Sirens swimming about my head,
Making a voodoo doll from wine and bread.
High-time I got a razor to my head, like a monk.
Taking the wafer of shame upon my tongue,
Chirruping idly an arbitrary song,
Of cardboard guilt, choke it back, move along, how punk.
In dream, contrive essential vows with zephyrs, fauns,
In sweat is dislodged fever come the dawn,
So as my shackles shrunken in the morn, I rise, unsunk.
Station Gates
And slam-dunked into this tube of flesh like canned tuna,
I feel like I'm condescending to a severed neck stump,
Patting the cauterized stump-end in onanistic strokes
Like one would nurse awkwardly a grieving relative.
It'll be an OBE if I don't rape you at the station gates.
Schizoneiric
Last night in the fever cubicle I witnessed...
My childhood face for the first time since I wore it,
The same smile, the same hair, the same eyes,
Last glimpsed in the mirror when I bore them.
A high-five across decades -
'When sporting this tiny, unrefined mask,
Did I ever chance upon an oracular glance into
The face I now purport to call my own?' I ask.
In the fever cubicle, a dialogue entranced,
Amassing decades of enquiry in that glance -
Harbouring the same hopes and hypochondria? Check.
Ditto the constancy of craving for clarity.
Lucidity wears a nightgown in my dream,
Is this maturity thing a linear steal,
Or a Russian doll structure whose seams,
Are relinquished only in dreams' parochial heal?
Lucy stalks the corridors, hanging,
Her gown of night-spun muslin,
Loosely. White light crackles,
In the waking mist – her husband.
Seams peeled back like tape,
Onto whose history my boy face is etched.
Dreams engorge the plight of rape
Conferred upon the adult form. Is it not wretched?
Last night in the fever cubicle I clasped hands
With my acromealgious claw, in pact of union
Time's dissolved, but hangs all saline in the glands,
Secreted shyly not to breach the new communion.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
