Tinkering

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As I tinker with the fourth poetry collection I realise how far I have come, yet I find little comfort in that moment knowing the roads I’ve walked and the oblique paths waiting in the shroud of ignorance. My life did a volta, unexpectedly as if it was a poem and the poet changed their hum. Hum. Hum. Hum. I never knew the power of a hum. A hum can break and undo a life, a solid life as if set in concrete can shatter from a simple change of hum. Huh, fancy that. Ho hum. I tinker and think no further on matters ahead. Shards of moulded clay lay shattered by my feet. I imagine I look naked and lacklustre, finding no evidence of otherwise. The darkest day has turned to night, and in that I find comfort.

Take Two

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Come as you are, come as you were
When the slow snow fell
Across our virgin land,
Seeking glitter and glimmer
Underneath the Nevertheless
& the tinfoil hats
Tightly towered.
Come direct, come circumspect
Through the muddle and puddles
Of the path I present:
A tarp to trap you! Hold you
In my flailing arms,
Embrace my sorrows then
Slice up my heart.
Come as you are, come as you were
Back then, when
We failed
Our hearts.

I’m Tired

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I’m tired, tired
Of staring through one pair of saxe blue
Seeing only lukewarm winds
And faint flakes of glittering glow

I’m tired, tired
Of seeing the same fake limbs flailing
As dawn turns to dusk
On yet another arduous unadventurous
Day

I’m tired, tired
Of putting one foot ahead of the other
Foot, feet, a measurement of yet another
Failed attempt

I’m tired, tired
Of staring through a single pair of saxe blue
Seeing lukewarm winds pulling through
The faint flakes — the glittering glows
Of Christmas

The Shallow Dance of Life

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In the shallow dance of life
I no longer recognise the self.
I feel my soul slowly succumbing
To pressures far beyond comprehension,
Its slow seep through the cracks
Of a once solid foundation.
I no longer recognise my self.
I fear this new foundling
And its tepid taps
Across a dusty floor.

The Scrapyard of the Lost & the Fallen

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Blindly scouring the barren lands,
Unmade nails once bloodied
Now carry the dust of desperation
As the cracks and lines grow.

I search the scrapyard
Of the Lost and the Fallen,
Looking for another soul
To match the one pocketed.

I go on – reluctantly
Answers become questions
And bloody knees know
When to stop

But the head does not

Stop

Scouring

The scrapyards

Of the Lost

& the Fallen

Death rode in one blustery morning

By -

Death rode in one blustery morning
Marking the coming of Shame,
The horse limp and striped
— tick tock & so they went

Barking up the write tree
Where ink no longer fade,
In sunlight their words stayed
Unstained,

Taintlessness in ambiguities
— and the uneven echo of history
Repeating itself as Death spake
Gingerly

‘Is there a House of Pleasures?’
‘It’s Limpy – needing a rest,’

The emphasis tainted by moonshine
And a red bottle cap
Left by the wayside
Way way desert way,

…

‘I only need a bath, and a pen
Cil
Cut
Sil
Ver is the House of Pleasures’
Death asked and Death stared
Down a barrel

Of a new beginning
Where wee Clouds of Shame
Saunter alongside savvy Selfies
Tapping along to trumpets
Blowing out their own ass.

Death rode in one blustery morning
Marking the coming of Shame.
Alas, no horse just a wannabe bronco
Z could have found some fame
Knowing Death — and the poetry
That could have been.

In the Unwritten

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The poetry was only found
In the unwritten,
The omitted
Words carried the burden
The dead donkey
Left behind
.

Like Breadcrumbs in the Sand

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Outstretched, like a beggar’s arm
The red rod dangles glistering keys
Enticing an abandoned kingdom of surprises.
The prickly path of the piscatorial
Points towards rainbow’s end
A box — alas — unlocked & looted.

Outnumbered, by slippery silver shadows
In a deep and shallow dance
Of artistic abandonment
— Oh, such bewilderment!

Outwitted, … …
… … *sigh* …
… like a breadcrumb in the sand.

I Lvst

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I lust

Lust for the marginal
Being on the same page,

Teeter slowly
In a dance of aging tethers

Weep as slow slacken threads
Wither and pray

For another page
To curse

A Feigned Resignation

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A sad congregation of Pretenders
Strutted across a summer’s stage
While the silent morning mirror reflected
The lone pretender
Gawking,

Gawping
Into space
In a Feigned Resignation
At Summer’s inevitable End,

*guitar solo*

‘I am not on fire,’ the boy of eleven said.
The Four Firemen of the Apocalypse disagreed,

The Hose of Infinite Squirts
Slaked the source of all powers
But but but the Hug of Infinity
Floated away in a soapy bubble

Towards no end.

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