Burning Constellations

Constellations can’t tell secrets -
revelations deeply secreted in stone steps
that weep as I walk upon them; wailing woes
with wetness and staining soles of shoes.
My soul mirrors sneakers – battered and bruised
but drowning in tears that cannot be told to another.
Imagine that – taking kindness from a light source long gone, like you
are now
No more, the sunshine that warmed my skin. And in
this darkness, amongst silent sorrow and whistling winds
I close my eyes and touch your face. A forgotten purchase of
pictures now passed, embrace with heart – giving stars the strength
to warm me.

Memories

Time just taken
and granted a tint of perception – yours or mine or anybody else.
A connection.
Fine thread. Weaved in flesh
and thought and heart and
hate – dressed in flowers or fear or
heavy ache.
Just there, in the windows
behind the looking glass
Perfume – so sweet
you want to eat them
Lie awake at night and you scream them.
See them.
Yours to sew and live again
your secret stash
that we all keep.

Heavy Sleep

Hurting hurt with hatred
Is only effective if
you can create but
I have no incantation nor
inclination
And so I pop it under my pillow
with a sprig of lavender
and lie as heavy on it as
it does me.

Resistance

Decide on dice and draw
pistols at dawn. Warn
hearts of darkness and
remain just that – trapped
in existing, swallowing down and
resisting love; refusing to dance but
betraying for lust.
Trust in feeling -
disagreeing with dealings of
rational thinking, linking love and
life with hopeful dreams.
And no.
Life is not Disney
but we – you and me
are story tellers, all the same.

Hey Jesus

Hey Jesus, what you doing?
I’ve got a tale that needs
chewing and I thought you
might help me out.
What’s the score with this love stuff?
Feels like I’m drugged up.
Hey Jesus – you lis’nin?
I know they say you died to save us
The depraved folk; your Pa giving
you up like a piece of meat.
That’s a beat I can borrow but
I struggle to follow that
you hung out Middle East and had
pals named John and Paul.
And Pete?
Pretty forward thinking. I’ve wondered
if you liked drinking a bourbon – watered down or neat?
Cos I’ll pour you one.
Poor me.
You see, I
could do with a bit of saving, cos
I’m bathing in darkness and don’t
have to hand, a miracle maker of
my own.
Just alone.
Just me and a guy that isn’t real.
Hey Jesus – forget I asked.
No deal.
I’ll keep that whiskey for me.

Rhythmic Blues

I hate this beat, it reminds
me of sunsets.
Wet feet, covered in crystals
of sand as we stand at the edge
and look in.
Sin again – right there, only
caring about feeling the
feelings that wash over us in
waves – paving a future so bright
like the light that warms our skin.
It always begins with a kiss, this
kind of sacrificial bliss that
draws your mind blind against
what lies beneath, washing
up and over those sandy feet
once more, making them sore
and raw with a bloody tread
that stains the ground beneath
them.

Trust

Words drip like butter
from your mouth as I
stutter to reply with such
beauty.
Could it be that we have
found it? Dumbfounded
by the beating that belts
against my ribs.
It is only when I melt to
believe it; start to retrieve
the love lying in bones and
butter
that you mutter indifference.
Lies
washed in silence and no
guidance for how to go
back to the blackness
of before.
No more magic.

No more.