and the man, who once were a boy
woke to find a couch nibbling
on the late night crackers left –
without cheese.
and the man, who once were a boy
saw a sign: EXIT, near an arrow
pointing left: the stage unlit
and no whispers.
and the man, who wished he were
that boy again,
found neither reassuring; the mice
scurried in the fading future dreamt.
I claim a faulty fabrication, there must be a defect, a design flaw; this device intended for breathing turns into a tap, a faucet of never ending drips and drops and drabs, just as the sweetest of summers arrive.
I want a refund.
Hidden in white spaces
a life in empty lonely lines,
beyond the full stops
where once green forests stood
like mighty pines and firs
snowcapped silver birch
no silent storms roar,
no need for more
than space, more space,
you called it space –
your freedom.
Your golden buttercups alight,
like starlight on a dreary day,
the scene of the crime, of adventure:
I chase red ants in a blue striped suit,
slow sandy socks rest
in dusty patent leather shoes;
I crawl and trawl the murdered grass
seeking to reassert, to reestablish
dominion;
I dive and swim your blue ocean
until your grey sky becomes my dread,
my fear of drowning without escape.
Your golden buttercups
spread thinly on wholesome toast
with blacker than black Joe,
an open window and a lonely lark,
and that smile – a crime of passion
un-punishable.
To fly beyond the red brick wall,
a minor misdemeanour, the sin
of a slender swift. To fly beyond
the red brick wall
like a self’s desire to flee
to escape its confinement:
the chains that stain every white sheet
every fabric of future freedoms,
carried high above the rules of men
on polished wings it found its freedom,
a swift swallow, a self proclaiming
a desire to be free
and to fly far beyond
and never to return again
to the red bricked wall
a sinner.
The burning, burning sensation
of failure to fully comprehend
all previously written words;
like Shame simmering on low heat
far too long, served with bread
stale like grass; cheeks on fire,
woes from weary words
turned prosaic.
Scissors or surgical knife my tools
to rid this world of Santa’s curse:
nesting, wanting, urging to become
like a pale beard of polar bear,
the Brow contemplates its fate
as I assassinate the sign
of ageing.
You asked for a kiss, a kiss
on the cheek as I left; you asked
– I gave –
but you never reciprocated,
left me wanting, wishing
there was more to be, to be had,
to be needed, yes needed. You
asked for a kiss so we kissed
and we parted like we never knew
any better. You asked for kiss
from me, yes me, but I still wonder
why, as my lips grow dry and my hair
thins and slowly greys, as I slowly fade
into your shadows.
There is sunshine
Outside I scroll and scroll
Feeling nothing
But a premature birth
Of hay
Of fever
Twins of undesired longing
To scroll and feel
Its burning rays
Of wonder
There is sunshine outside
Her scrolls hidden
Beyond my void another nothing
Her birth called forth attention
Of the gods
Of the mortals
Twice her lifelong longing failed
To feel
My burning hands
In wonder
There is sunshine
Hidden outside life and death
Beyond our nothing
Of infinite births
From their rolling in the gods own hay
To our mortal and feverish lust
Our ultimate longing to join them
To feel
That burning desire
Of rays touching us – a wonder
