The Cunning Language
Lips on lips of softest sweetness
all day of every day the red painted face,
dainty strawberry curves,
speak to me in untravelled tongues;
desire on fire for pale lips to touch
and a tongue to speak of flicking
the switch; but I don’t speak
the cunning language.
Poetry Drafts
Insinuation
Despair dangles from an orange branch
above yellow swimming clouds,
insulation, isolation, insinuation
of a separation
as life undress the living;
Despair dangles from an orange branch,
Swiss cheese melting,
cold feet, naked chest,
the striptease of life
without crowds cheering;
Despair dangles from an orange branch,
ratchet straps embracing rafters,
a loose noose cravat
supports a pendulum swinging;
Despair dangles from an orange branch
above yellow swimming clouds,
insulation, isolation, insinuation
of a separation
between the lived and the living.
I smell like old people,
and broken chords
There is no shame in age,
but dissonance …
Hobbling, out for a stroll
the leaves shudder in disagreement
I smell like old people
in the autumn as the sun sets
we are left unwashed
– out of tune
I smell like old people and death,
distorted truths intermingled
I see no shame in age, belt my tunes
in prepubescent harmonies
The ghosts of days to come
I see in the mirrors
We are merely in waiting
for the others to move along.
Remember lockdowns, yes?
I remember years prior
being locked in
locked down
without anyone caring;
Remember the key inserted
turned and liberation, yes?
I still await that day
when the sky turns blue
and there is again food for thought;
Remember lockdown.
Remember pain.
Remember freedom
and those still searching.
Yes?
Doldrums in a Hotel World,
caught in a net too fine to rip,
legless stockings and whiskers
roam the northern town;
neon lights before carpeted dreams,
crumpled foil and spoon for breakfast,
lunch
supper,
super-safe matches always on hand
to light up the world
outside the Hotel.
Doldrums, in a world of spoons
on dark domesticated streets,
curtains drawn and blinds folded
too private a world for forks,
storks come and go
as the grass grow
in attics covered by melted snow,
on dark domesticated streets.
Doldrums with sticky fingers,
a taste of alloy on dreaming lips,
pride long lost and skies hanging low
no height ,no high, high enough
to cross the empty streets
span the clouds
far beyond the Hotel’s reach
of a neon-lit northern town.
Doldrums in the world of others,
dull drums play the marching songs
of street cleaners sweeping
cleansing, purging the poor
the shaking the breaking
from every space ever claimed
••• — — — •••
in the Hotel World in the northern town
of your choosing.
Doldrums in a Hotel World,
legless ripped tights
whiskers in neon lights
carpeted dreams on crumbling soil
the spoon a foil
for bare breakfasts,
late lunches
& suppers on foot;
matches light an unhidden world
witnessed,
wretched the polished shoes passing
the poor the shaking the breaking
caught in a net too fine to rip.
Is this the final world,
brown fields without access,
beige empty walls
and a tempestuous jerrycan
Are these my final words,
as the battery flats
the sun sets or never rises
beyond my pale blue screen
Am I to be the last of my kind,
nameless name changer,
a runner from fading fairies
and hopes lost
Is there another way
not backwards
through the fading flowers of hope
towards the fields of Elysium
Is this our final world
where castles crumble,
crumble being served
without custard
cold, cold, earthlings — beware
No language is my first,
poetry is my second
stab at life; the trickling beck
to get some attention. Hello!
No mind to call my own,
regurgitation of rotten wordlings
belittling the shoulders I fell from.
Goodbye!
No language is my first,
no language is my second,
I cannot stand, legs crushed
and arms flailing.
I am but letters without an alphabet,
a farmer without land,
a smith without …
& silence.
Tobogganing
I pull you alongside
memories
piled in the old toboggan
a blanket
a broken flask
chocolate stained knees
and fingers freeze;
holding the short straw
tightly to the chest
down the deserted hillside
faster and faster
,on the skid,
I pulled you alongside
memories
piled in an old toboggan
up a deserted hillside
to the summit
that never were.
Fourteen Leagues
I whet your golden axe,
pack my sack with fading memories
and limp towards the tree-line
of the forest of fourteen leagues,
to find the tallest pine
and fell it to the ground
then light the fire to purge
the last of the haunting memories …
the early years were small and there is no light no more and then warm milk but no cookies and then winter and cold and snow and cold and warm milk and then I walk but cannot talk the words they shout and shout and then sleep and falling and in darkness falling and then green grass and soft grass and naked feet on grass and gravel and those yellow flowers in the gravel and on the knees gravelling and rubbing the flower in the face of another face much older and the smell of pipe tobacco and fishing in early morn and smoking in elderberry to make supper by a mother’s mother round as the football we kicked but smelling of old cooking and not lederhosen as we are not from there or anywhere that can be found in a map of the Texaco brand in the door pocket of a tiny green box of British make and the longer red one that didn’t give me birth but a hospital and colour photos of a small one and a camera and an angry face of a little man clearly lacking from those early days any desire to be captured on film …
and as I toss the final photo
into the fire of my own desire
the crackling takes me back
to those early years
unknown then
the events to unfold
to bring a life through life
towards a death
both unknown in form and fact
in strength and sickness
in love and hate
now sprouting …
I whetted your golden axe,
packed my sack,
came limping back
through the forest of dreams
without memories or bliss
but wiser — nonetheless
I don’t really care if no one cares,
but I care if someone could care
of something I care about,
if we could share that care
we could, or would, or might
care
of
other
each
take,
go Center Stage in the play
of us; so …
enough of not caring
enough of swearing
at empty walls, at empty holes,
I don’t really care, but we could.