At the point where harbour wall curved onto sand, we found seagull chicks. Dead. Alison wanted to preserve them. She had seen a BBC documentary. Rows of dead things in jars.
“God is dead,” she said, repeating a slice of the narrative. “Myself is mutilation and separation.”
Under a furnace God-less blue sky, we placed the cadavers into a Woolworths’ plastic bag and carried them home. They were cramped into an old jar, which Alison filled with methylated spirits. The chemicals gnawed at their raw skin and released a flotilla of pinkish shavings. These fizzed to the...
Some days, I like to take a lonesome Walk around your mind.
Smokey crematorium perfume Drapes o’er shrouded curtains, Doors open at 24 frames a second Lit by lingering vision He's still in his armchair Chewing a pipe, lips circling tea cup As if that why God gave Him such a kindly mouth.
The aqua urn resembles Vase on the mantelpiece, Where flowers whispered To be set free, to wilt For the soil to be more than a grave.
Our fable Is what we are not & never can be. Our fable ...
My wife and I aren’t one and one. We are two halves that make a whole. You have to apply yourself to be a family. Two halves fitted together are more efficient than either half would be alone.” Bruce Lee
Moonburnt elbow pointing to the sea He crafts clay spiracles Spires of butterfly breath - In deeds of our skin home We learn to dream of being each other.
Return to sleeper, Crepuscular creases Of a chaotic ironed day Float flint'ed arrow head Into rain-pain shower.
Hypnotic push-me pull-me Of twilight versed tide, Rocks us, finally, To delirious slumber.
We stood on the stretch of beach Where wave does never reach, Sometimes, Fog placed ‘Old Rust’ in her pocket So we drew the ghost instead. Crayon misted keeper of light Shuffled, trilby and tweed, Drowned sailors saluted him.
I tell myself: The lighthouse has waited for my return, But merely home for tired sea birds & nesting long forgotten memories.