Count me down
snap me open
show me life exists
outside these inconsequential walls.
Squeeze me oranges – physical in their consciousness.
Slay me dejection that slavers when it tastes defeat
stand the sentinel –
sucking underfoot of functions need.
Bring me gratification
tinged with vertebral transparency
Spirals of glistening shade, recline serenely dappled
in their morning wraith-like haze.
Amid your twisted sinews, I am most graciously calmed
while pristine elaborate skies; ground
my oath, steadfastly to you
Kissed in passing by all manner of such gracile splendour
flower heads sweeping stately, in their lightness of touch.
Reflecting deep –
of the imagery that scurries the waters edge
asking of no permission, to stand still this day
draped in adult perfection – floating on a child’s eye;
of far flung surrealist imagination.
We picked white roses
then as we slowly became undone, we threw
them at the waters edge.
We divided watching them sail from our view
for when something is over – it is the only thing to do.
You exiled me long ago; into those awkward empty spaces
allowing the summers heat to blister my back
whilst I alone, shaped the snowman’s smile.
I feast thoughtfully,
upon the last days of our freshness
distilling the taste of our uncorked laughter.
It could be any afternoon; in my wool buttoned
cardigan, fastened against the cold moist air.
I am not for connecting – time is but a clock ticking itself alone.
Rye bread and water, slip to bless these arterial walls
before the night
comes to tell me, that this is the colour of sleep.
full mouthed, like a rattle snake in masquerade
fatalities numbers gathering, in the course of
Can you swallow the sound of the truth?
Or are you absorbed in my words of respect.
I never aspired to wound you – think me not your
butcher-bird perched on high waiting to assail.
As for all who loiter in the realms of your retribution
let it stand, how roses black, dressed in shaded vale
did decompose as a child filled her time –
waiting to be your Daughter:
Whilst sanguine nasturtiums, did weaken to
recollections of distant grey – only to wake outside
the believing of my childhood, extracting nothing
beyond the liberty of my mind…
Stripped exposed –
windward as the rowan tree
the scarlet berries.
Lemon scent, varied
with the smell of spoil.
Your breathe scolding
the space we inhabit.
Rare peaceful interludes – like masked
intruders, infrequent in their callings.
The house always so full of thunder
as if violent red
Nasturtiums did ascend their way: