Poem: Effusion

effusion

I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of you,
But it is only now, dream diamonds poured
Into the cup of flesh that I come face to face
With what I’ve most desired – this being of magic,
This anarchist of perfection, offering me a mirror
Of all I most love within myself.

I want to give myself to you,
To offer every inch and acre of my heart to you
For your delight and delectation –
I am at your disposal,
To observe, listen, engage, worship,
To play earpiece to all you have to say
Even if it undoes me in the expressing

Because all I want is to love you,
Freely, truly, without fear or duplicity,
But to love you openly would be to change you,
To change all that made me love you;
My love would be as a teardrop on stained glass,
A maggot infesting a fresh repast

So, as I watch you, talking animatedly opposite me,
I must pretend that I am not there,
That I am not a being with arms, legs,
With sensations that wish to be expressed through them,
That there is nothing for me to reach towards;
I am merely the eye through which you look at yourself,

Because you cannot touch a painting while the ink is wet,
Read a perfect poem through grasping fingers;
All I can do is read, and read, and read you,
And pray the turning of your pages never ends

For the sake of civility,
I will pretend we are equals,
Even if I only exalt myself through worshipping you,
Through appreciating you are the totality
I have ever been reaching towards

Would a kiss fracture the perfection of that glass?
Would a too sincere caress soil a perfect world
That has no desire to be disturbed?

I am only a peasant,
A poet crying outside castle walls;
I am no warrior,
No aggressive invader,

All I can hope is that as my tears mingle with your stone,
We can find a way to be together and alone,
So I can kiss the stained glass of your beauty,
Without leaving a whisper of ripples in the water

Advertisements

Poem: The Galleries

beach

I.
Come, link your arm in mine,
To the soft rustle of your dress,
We’ll walk the galleries together,
Footsteps slow, each pivot of your heel
A timeless nexus between breath’s motion

Can you hear the wind in this painting, my love?
The way the willows bend
To the violent kiss of the wind,
Our feet kissing the floor’s tessellations,
The deprivations and regressions of our lonely imaginations

May we, like needlework,
Frame the softness of our silence,
Encase it in a warm crystal, without borders,
All our marvellous moments,
Orbed in a serenity,
Hushing all who observe it

Now my legs are bleeding,
The winds blow too cold,
And the distance of your dress
Makes me nervous

No more do stilettos practice echolocation,
Like bats, trapped by window glass,
Giving up on their escape,
Enwombed in ennui,
She perches nervously on me;
Her talons spell disaster
For all I’ve hoped to be

II.
Now, in the sand dunes,
Skirted by skylarks,
The particles create skirmishes
From the fickleness of fractals

All the weft of stranded sea creatures,
The wet footprints of pebbles,
The mad dance of Pembrokeshire,
And the engrams it engraves

But how am I meant to feel a thing
With all these petticoats about me?
The friction of sand flaying my labia,
My vulva, the corseted hermaphroditic impulse,
To be lonely, to belong, to be free

I can never achieve them all,
Reach a self of holy Trimurti,
Watching other kites fly,
Too much shame to fly my own

Shame, always shame,
Keeps my love subdued,
Puts fear in men and women,
Leading me to conclude:

I am my own asylum,
The bonds of my own containment,
The extinction of my only freedom,
My antlers on the walls,

I should never have come to the beach,
Too full of my sadness’s singing,
Always mouthed by the sea,
Too full of my sadness’s meaning,
An unbearably poignant triptych,
Placing a coffin in my heart,

Never a Lady beside me,
Always a man apart

Poem: The Fruits of Sadness

tree heart

From an unexpected distance
A cannonball hit me in the heart,
Blood throstled from my vena cava
And coronary chambers, erupting like a fountain,
From this new mouth in my breast bone

There was no one to hear it speak, to help,
In this ashen desert, no flashes, no searchlights,
Only explosions to warm me, ruptured and bleeding
Into the blackened soil, rich with the loam
Of turbid hurt

With the swiftness of a swallow
The blood-loss visions began,
The bleached skeleton men dropped seeds into my chest,
Feeding that mouth, massaging my dripping arteries
Into terms of acquiescence

Then the thing began to take root,
All those barked fingers peeling through vertebrae,
Rending my skin to seek the soil,
Tendrils raping the gaping mouths of my veins,
Transforming my torso into a suffering, green plexus

Soon my thorax was a hunk of wood,
My oaken heart blossomed with a pain so magnificent
It nailed me to the ground

It was still winter,
No leaves came,
Birds perched sad on my naked branches,
Harvesting the haemoglobin dripping from my buds

No symbol of hope is intended in this,
Just a dying heart,
Turned, Daphne-like, into a tree,
And all the inevitable life that comes with it

 

Poem: Murder Between Two Walls

murder.jpg

To think I had all this space to myself,
I could’ve done the most awful things:
Ejaculated blood into the carpet,
Clogged the elevators with my harvest of dead,
Dismantled the limbs of the room service girl,
Hatched my desires from out of my head

But I did nothing,
I was a good boy,
I kept my murders to myself,
Smouldering passively betwixt these walls

I’ve done everything you asked,
Isn’t it time to kill yet?
I’m so hungry and famished,
Starved of love and sensation

When comes my great act of defiance –
The amoral spectacle for which I’ll ever be remembered?

No one will know, of course,
You’ll only read this if I decide not to do it,
Carry on going quietly back to my room,
With passivity to allay my murder

Be grateful the blood stays in this pen,
And never goes any further

 

Poem: The Triumph of Failure

rooftops

Starting as the space between the strings,
A silent duet above the street tops,
Words and melodies trickled from lips,
Hearts-hiccoughing from grace-frayed gifts,

But then I became repulsive to you,
All my songs the stuff of maggots,
And now you only saw carbuncles
Whenever you looked into my eyes

“You can sing from a place of fire,
Ushering lyrics into The House of Beauty,
Lift the fallen out of the mire,
Find sweetness in the tears of cruelty

“But can you sing me a house?
Write a symphony of social security?
You’re a worthless, rhapsodizing louse
Venom in the mouth of domesticity”

And, as troubadour, I must triumph in failure,
Submit to the solitude of starved desire,
Search vainly in despondent valour,
For the pain sure to inspire

Unearthed pain unlocks the treasure,
Fresh blood mingles in the fountain,
Divorce from love gives me leisure
To make hell into a mountain

Purgatory, overflowing, has no gates;
A journey across the desert awaits

 

Poem: The Falconer

falcon.jpg

Invisible women stride through sunshine,
Dappled marionettes of ulterior intent,
Only outlined by where they are not,
The abjection of the feminine,
The passage of the Gods

Feeling everything in the pinpoint of a paintbrush,
The luscious electrode of needled reality,
Everything a molecule of infinite power,
There is a silent explosion,
In the heart of every flower

Always holding back,
A hawk between two worlds,
The surface of dimensions perched on my beak,
The grip of the cosmos in the tines of my talons

Then I’ll return to my falconer,
The answer in the questioner,
With my kill gleaming luscious
On the threnody of my lips

If Atlas shrugs,
Then Gaia thrusts,
All pivoting on her hips

 

Poem: Feral Moans

ecoseuxal

I can taste you,
Taste you like a tiger can taste the pheromones,
The moist-mouthed possibilities of its mate,
A million miles across the jungle

You have no stripes,
Only tattoos of flesh,
The fur of unshaven legs,
Of the mount of Venus,
Cradled like a secret between your thighs

But a secret never put out so many feelers,
Crawling into your hungry earth,
The womb of millipedes and scented death

I can taste it in your breath,
Thick pants of fire, inferno-lunged,
The danger of sex,
Of mutually-assured seduction,
The G-force of a lunging lioness,
Gnawing blood of sensual death

From pheromones,
To feral moans,
Of sweat beads pushed to erotic panic,
Overstraining the cracked ribs of lust

 

Poem: Unexploded Bomb

unexploded

The unexploded bomb in the back garden,
Household fires that cannot be confined,
The perfect crime that comes begging for pardon,
The pounding nails from the hammer of time

I wanted to enjoy myself,
To surrender to the music,
But you were my obstacle:
A slab of indifference envenoming my enjoyment

Growing demoniac,
My meditation was a palimpsest of lacerations,
Of turning prodding fingers into black, fetid knives,
Carving patterns into the fibrils of your back,
A generous mutilation of your worthless spine

I could’ve eaten you then,
Scattered you in fillets over the dance floor,
The punishment for obstructing me with insignificance,
Making me the steak knife into humanity’s fillet

An obstacle to my ego,
To that which suffers,
Suffering unto the little children,
That disguise themselves as humans

The demon babies in the belly,
The perfume in the smelly,
The cyanide in the elixir,
The gold heart of the trickster

 

Poem: The River’s Daughter

nymph

Waiting by the river,
Watching nymphs dive in the water,
A message to deliver,
To the River’s Daughter

I could not breathe, I could not swim,
Could not reach the air above,
I never had a chance to begin,
To meet halfway in love

Then along came a lady
Clothed in crowfoot and river weeds,
I knew she would betray me,
But I had other needs

I fell her for, hypnotized,
Her aura spreading wide,
I could not move, I could not speak,
I was paralyzed

“What would you, green maiden?
Tell me how to serve you,
With sorrow I’ll be laden,
If I cannot deserve you.”

She looked at me, took my hand,
Pulled me into the river’s waist;
I just wanted to be close to her,
Submitting to fate

“My love,” said she, “I must kill you,
It’s the only the gift you can me,
Unless you die for me,
I cannot live with you,”

I acquiesced and felt the kiss
Of water in my lungs,
I felt the agonizing bliss
Of the river’s killing tongue

Now I lie trapped in the river,
My love flows on forever,
I will never leave her,
Pain will leave me never

I had to die, I had to die,
Death is love’s true birth,
Forever in the river I’ll lie
Waiting for the truth

I cannot breathe, I cannot swim,
Cannot rich the air above,
I never had a chance to begin,
To meet halfway in love

 

Poem: Lake of Ice

202050_theprisoner_heart-of-the-swamp

Why can’t my heart fly?
Sticky and stranded among the rocks,
Enwrapped by tentacles and shelled molluscs,
It lurks among the turbid waters,
Waiting to breach for dry land,
But finding safety in the cool thrill of darkness,

I am treading to you over a lake of ice,
Mindful of every shudder, each stentorian crack,
Taking my time,
Not wanting to thaw with frenzy,
To turn what I love into an evasive enemy,
But chased by persistent fears,
Running razor fingers through the grooves of frost,
I want to hold onto you as a ship’s mast,
The last refuge of a madcap drowning fast

But patience, restraint, are my self-loaded chains,
The bitter laughs spluttering from the lips of my ribs,
The pain of counting out the divisive seconds,
The heart splintered by the season’s dials

Always afraid of making the wrong move,
As though love were a game of chess,
A test of endurance and strategy,
Plotting, conniving, abstracting,
Finding excuses to see you again,
To get closer,
To silently sample each efflorescence of your wonder

To kiss goodnight down timeless streets,
The place where endings and beginnings meet