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

Advertisements

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 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: 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

Poem: Sharing Wildness

shaman.jpg

Who’s the one sitting on all the rockets,
Sacral and root chakra store the furnace,
Smouldering inside from spine to skull,
I feel the intensity of desire,
Of Karma’s strange pull

I hoped if I got to know you,
I could nip it in the bud,
Stop the running bath water becoming a flood,

But my ploy failed,
Prevention only furthered the fuse,
Crackling towards personal demolition

It’s always like this,
Having to make myself anew,
Each time Venus’s arrow goes through,

But waiting in the trees,
The camouflaged hunter,
Tries to conceal his internal disorder,

To dazzle and misdirect
With the fake state of his warriorhood,

Because truth takes time to put into words,
Like the firing of bullets,
Your aim must be good,

And the timing perfect,
Or the proficiency of your kill,
Results in the destruction of your imperfect will

Let’s leave the hunting metaphor,
I refuse to play predator,
Putting myself in your sights,
Preparing the onslaught,
Hoping as I catch you, I will also be caught

A mutual capture of assured finesse,
Not made to tame, but to share wildness

Poem: Surveillance

14-Marman-Borins-google-800x600.jpg

Watch a bird in its cage,
Surveillance is enough to make us insane,
The watched pot doesn’t boil,
But blows out its own brains

When observed, I must hide or strike out,
Scurry off to hedgerow,
Use my beak,
The knife I call my mouth,
To rend muscle from tendon,
Inflict wounds to inspirit distraction

But the blood has a way of following you,
Like the leech of bad memories,
Embarrassing actions, drunken confessions,
Of night breezes blowing in past-life memories,
The toxicity of oil spill odours

Spilling the beans,
I spilled out not just my heart,
But my ignorance in a hunk of gelatinous mass,
Something to wrap tentacles around face,
The shattering of serenity,
The prat-fall from grace,
The soaked credibility of good first-impressions,
Met with cold fingers in the morning

Knowing to disbelieve hope’s mercy,
The discouragement of over-spent warning

Poem: Autopsy of Obsession

munch

There are days when I turn into the very spitfire of rage,
Imagining each of my corners has the sharpness of a blade,
In the mutated tree of my thoughts, barbed wire epidermis,
Pierces all the women inhabiting my fantasies,
The dramatis personae of my harvested whimsies,
Of dresses clung to wet-mouthed thoughts,
Ill-advised courtship indulged in draughts

Sex only comes into it as a primordial energy,
An intellectual game,
Most of my philandering I do in my mind,
Dreams of infidelity help me unwind,

But, if unfaithful, then unfaithful to what?
To the contrived concatenation of feudal civilization,
To the Christian relic of unhallowed churches,
Doomed to lie in the dust of theology,

I merely want to be there,
To have your aroma,
To be the observer of your wit’s Passover,
To have a figurehead I can quietly worship,
To give my obsession a cathexis, a direction,

There need be no passing of organs, of fluids,
Of kisses stolen from needle armpits,
There need be no moisture from dewy mornings,
To taste your dress when kindled with grasses

If push came to shove, then shove I would not,
Sooner crying into your lap,
Than allowing myself to weep through my phallus,
I want a friend who is sharper than a friend,
From whom I will always taste the love of tension,
An uncertain comfort that needn’t be mentioned

Never sure I truly do,
When I say ‘I love thee true’
Loving truer, having something to love,
As below, so is it above,