Does The Postman Really Ring Twice?
“My migratory songs are on wings,
Seeking their nests in thy voice.” Tagore
“There is nothing as beautiful as a burning book.” Anon
Counting branches on rust tree
Breeze stirs stain from cup lip,
Remembering 1979 summer
Circus came to town
Acrobat slipped and broke her neck
Clowns carried her away in toy ambulance.
Into audience of theatre nap
Book spined spread on lap
as butterfly flight.
Paper proscenium arches
& folds Freudian dream:
Enter stage left> an Elvis-Alsatian hybrid
All shook up, barking suede shoes.
Pope Luciani wrote on my bedroom wall
‘When in Rome…..don’t feed the lions.’
Exit stage right<
Sleep surrenders to kitchen-sink
Drama of a dripping tap,
Falling angles in L Shaped room shadow’ings
Move slower than traffic behind multiple crash,
On radio dead pop star sings
Of that thing called love.
Remains in the groove.
Bemoans ‘social media murdered
The delight of fleshed ink’ ~
Forty four letters from home
Bills to unsettle paupers
Life insurance for 99 pence a day.
Numbers on a door worn by all lived here,
Ghosts in brickwork, learning ‘to become’
In other narrowing doorways and steeper staircase.
Tamilian sheaf breaks letter-box hinges
Smells of Kumari Kandam mountain fountains,
Tender as a baby wave skimming stilled stream.
Unwraps itself on my bed.
Each volume inscribed sensually
As gifted red to blue pearls
Stringed words thread around harbour
Lighthouse : lighthouse contains library :
The library holds yellowing manuscripts
Stacked in our cranium corners
Adrift on a ferocious infernal tide.
Know me by my words.
Painted night can wait until day sinks
Into peach flavoured wetness,
Moon parachutes will float silvery
Ribbons to the ground –
Don’t forget to catch them.
Whispers to candles have
Extinguished another diary,
Had my cake & eaten it,
Only tongue can tell in the
Taste of tomorrow winds
If it going to merely be
A good year for the roses.
It is on the verge of lisping
Everything and nothing.
Roundabout maybe full of cars
While violets could be crumpling in rain
Silence drowns the sound of a distant train
Derailing the lives of one hundred and fifty?
I used to think watercolours
Were self-portraits left out in rain.
Stood on stone-dusted cliff edge
Window ledge for all oceans
Leaning back against smashed glass
Felt delicate bones of dead chicks
Who never flew that summer
Who never used their wings.
From years stood at shores
I now understand that
The sea is a woman.
Civet musk creeps o’er jasmine petals
My vision falls inward
As a an unroped church bell
Crushes polished pulpits.
Blue & Green eyes meet marbling brown
Glaring blaze of a roaring oak pyre
(Bonfire of no vanities).
If Christ’s last temptation
Was mystery shrouded
Then no longer do I need
To explain my personal crucifixion.
Above and beyond, the
Disparate mist spread
All I see is you.
Written by Trouble_Loves_Me
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