The sea she pauses here
slowed to a calm between the rigid aged breakwaters;
swaying the murky shadowy recess
before once again, heaving her belly upwards
migrating from the shore.
We stand in solitude
you and I – never together yet never alone.
Your emptiness rocks me like a skiff
journeying out the swell.
Too deep to run aground – too shallow to comprehend.
Twelve months – what long months at that.
Time absconding, coursing through my eroded bones:
and still, those execration’s keep on flowing from my mouth
I hold out my hand, fingers stretched to pain
stopping to watch a stone, you’ve skimmed
going down without a trace.
We are a lot alike, that stone and I
both remaining faceless in your never ending game.
I have never travelled beyond me
nor spoken of my dreams, to the passing hoypoloi.
I am recognized for standing amid the flowers
spliced between a sea of graceful waving grasses,
behoving the ruddy heathen masses
who congregate my battles shore.
Always yet, as far away from perpetuity
as life is to – freedom
there are responses that only you can understand.
Yet before I goad them exposed,
draining their discomfort like some maiden
lying sick about her bed –
Would you keep pace with me, just this once
in this our house of my distress?
Oh, I know
there are less demanding crusades I could
well have considered asking.
But tell me please
where does heaven end its passage
permitting hell to keep me – mercilessly entertained.
I will watch the candles cry
stare out the oil lamp – until it burns dry.
At the heart of the ridiculous, beats
Loving you – me;
the single flower of the flock
Always the one, addicted to your addictions
in all their unpalatable truths.
Disciplined in all of your art form
white suffused with red, a smear by any
other, would simply be pink.
Extracting sound bites
the shadows of life – fast forwarding
the replay dial called living.
Distant on some calling bay
the tide long ebbed
as raindrops rare – show how a city glows.
I in silence lie about my bed
bleached roots – to anchor
the rawness of this canker.
Last night I did not play with sleep
as I fell into the madness of sharing
what is mine.
She hurries on by
her sharp, stiletto stance
tracing the delicate staccato steps
that twist her hips, painfully onwards.
Five over the counter bottled colours, do battle
with her now, grey hair.
Their copper tawdry glow
far out selling Blackpool’s bawdy neon lights.
Discounted bargain basement fragrances
intermingle with the smell of soured nicotine,
she’s her own walking pyrotechnic show
primed to explode.
Depressing how the age of a woman dictates her
upward stance – and yet
what of it:
outside that time, will always want to smear
She once of such vivid transcendent outlines
now viewing life, through eyes; that can no longer denote
her primary shades of youthful grandeur.