We joked of men coming,
Of men with purpose,
Of men bringing white jackets
With extra long sleeves.
We joked of men coming,
Of men with stern faces,
Of men in white coats coming
To lock me up.
We joked of men coming,
Of men with hateful eyes,
Of men sent to incarcerate
The one true self.
We joked once long ago, voices
In unison laughing at the prospect
Of men coming for me, me, me
But their gods chose my final frock:
A white jacket with extra long sleeves.
Beyond my breaking belief
An abode; the bell every hour
On the hour summoned the Dead
And the Dreary, the Worried
And the Weary;
A branch off a master trunk
Old as the dusty dreams
Said to be the only truth
Worth clinging to;
Beneath a dust cover high above
Rattling remains of one who spoke
At length and at depth and at
Everyone and everything
Congregated; now silence fill
The void left to those still present:
The Dead and the Dreary,
The Worried and the Weary, in an
Abode far beyond
My fascination.
Breathless boredom and chains
I cannot feel; cannot turn this wheel
Of fortune: I wish I could
Go beyond, break their glass ceiling:
Invisible dreamless foe,
One you insist keep me Earthbound,
keep me Unfound and Unremembered;
As time moves on, ticking – tocking
I remain. I remain. I remain still
As stillness sought
By a chastised child,
Out of breath but bound
To steaming trains and
By invisible chains
Of boredom.
A dishwasher for the soul, I miss
A dishwasher for the soul; maybe
A washer-dryer would do
To cleanse and clean
To scrub and scour
The dark demons and dreary dreams;
To start afresh, the smell of roses
Purged and missed
No longer:
.
Angels! Angels! Hear me!
My destiny lies elsewhere, my
Lies lies far beyond these shores,
Far beyond their comprehension;
Angel! Angel! Please descend!
My painted face and frozen lakes
Summon no companions, shapes
No future: backwards the sight,
Backwards the mind of one
Abandoned and obliterated
By She who wore three faces;
Angel of my prayers – hear me.
Hear me and respond.
Hear me and go beyond
These shores and show me
Where my destiny lies,
Where I can find my answers –
Or my perpetual bliss.
Is there ever love at dusk,
As the blue moon rises
Above abandoned treetops;
As dawn breaks without echoes
Of birdsongs once composed
In a garden forever green
By a gardener no longer loving;
As noontime kneels and bows
To the whims of the final few
Sighs of abandonment: her love
Protruding; her shadow
A high tide
In moonlight.
Is there ever love
At dusk,
At dawn,
Or at her kneeling noon.
Her desire chiselled upon him:
Sandpiper-coloured streaks
Across snow-clad clouds;
Dancing and bouncing along
A sandy street: grained beached
Treats of goldfish, pale blue
Piercing eyes, and tannoy laughter.
Her dreams like maternal mallets,
Likes knives through butter-
cups and butter-
flies and beeswax
Sweethearts: irresistible,
(Incongruous)
Escapee,
Free, free, free!
– Until pinioned.
Her thoughts, like bell-blue streaks
On four starless walls of solitude;
No shadows fall where
Shadows form –
Breathe-only
Spaces.
I think the universe is telling me
Something:
To give up or give in to what it sees
Inappropriate;
A van rested
For three whole years;
Three years without tender love
Or care; the turning of the key
Like death without echoes left
Me wanting: escape from this hell
Of ideas and random
Implementations.
Blackened fists changing source
Of power and of power and
FFS please release; and the tears
Fell, and the fears … ah FFS —
Crowbar and plank and F battery
Gave way to empty space, hurray
But but and Oh FFS …
The loaded and charged source
Of power, unable to turn the F
Engine: a bang and a bang
And so the fuse blew blew blew
and the air turned blue.
And so this simile came to be,
Unlike a metaphor I swear it be
Truthful and void: I’m gonna
Scrap this F*ng van,
Like an offering
To the universe.
I slice your insincerity like pastrami
To cover my buttered toast;
The orange juice, the fresh brew
Left untouched.
I grate your cheese, lactose-free
Lies upon lies upon piles piled
Beyond our safe zone; fake phones
And purged porn drape our doors.
I toss the remnants of every us
Down the drain revolving;
Not recycling our dead dreams
Of an inconceivable infinity.
I slice my last days into slivers
Of meaning, glyphs into characters
Forming words of wonderment
Equally spaced into sentences,
Purposely punctuated
Into paragraphs of paranoia;
I keep on digging deep
The hole of my final escape.
My script was written in invisible ink,
For an unlit stage without property;
Before an audience locked away,
I was barred from even auditioning.
