Becoming more like a metaphor Whore, failure of my expression In granite valentine scripts Of how Dad wrote to Mum.
Broken breath enters a stanza As snapped bone breaks a ballet. Singing a washed-up shanty To summon rusticles from wreck, but The harbour waters run still.
Sometimes the night wakes in the pillow Fear that any movement should silently stop. Fright’mares cut never ending network of cables. Skin light dreams into being that is real …………and nothing but the truth.
As kids we discovered a ramshackle wooden hut deep in the woods, seemingly an occasional refuge for the homeless. Over the years, it’s become apparent that the hut had remained in our psyche. I sometimes wonder who paints the glasses rose-coloured? This is the tale of Mandy who was to abandon housewife suburbia for glitz & glamour of crack! She was found corpsed in pools of vomit & shit & piss. Oh, the glamour indeed!
Amen! To the reverence of Skipping ropes and Rubik’s cubes, Hide and thy shall seek the Glory of the Lord-of-the-Flies.
Words, as ancient vessels submerged, Lighten the load of her absence. Lead me down the winter trail: No planes fly overhead Only jet streams of traveller dreams & Bells being rung under sand washed oceans.
Voda stained cards mark the Years that have passed Torn and strung as hospital lights Strewn under a life-support machine: Bleep and see how cruelly they sleep. I sip the morning dew And drink to the absent.
Do not be afraid of the dark I am stood in the moonlight, The man in the iron mask ...
Nostalgia is a broken window With pain of distance as glass, Perhaps?
Who was that boy who wrapped butterflies in cherry skins Stealing delicate memories which were not his own?
The eye is not satisfied with seeing. The mind in its cottage Bath water tides shingle the skin Frames the white beds lovers will share. What ghosts will rise once the moon wanes? >>><<< Shooting stars collapse After birth of the unborn, Into fertile seas. Seeds fire from shot guns Slaughter wounds don’t always run...