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Tag Archives: poem

The hold

You’re there

in those moments of space 

between the  places where white noise waits  

for silence.

But as the clock turns on

chiming time with a bird, and 

I find it harder to succumb 

to quietness

and feel you slip, between the 

cacophonous  cracks. 

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Agrypnotic

It’s in the black, you visit me

As I cocoon, you emerge
and plague me like aching teeth

I dance – an ancient, wrapped for the afterlife

but there are no beautiful adornings here

Just skin and thoughts, naked and raw

In a tangle of sheets

The Journey to Pickled Mountain.

You are worn, dear Peter

And pained like the cries upon a battlefield

Where do they go? Growing intense – a mechanism under skin that twists in coiled movement 

I know the hurt.

Clock chimes 

Three, then six, then nine

Twelve 

Silent striking, inviting, I hear it calling 

Here come’th the hour

But you will not die today, dear Peter

Sweet Peter

You will not die today.

Thursday’s

We’re fizzing, dizzy with it
clinking glasses
chasing tequila like its some
wild, ferocious beast

And there’s us – just kidding
There’s us and thousand more bodies
bodies all sweating
drunk on the chase of frets and
foreign animals

We’re Serengeti Sailors – what?

Mexican Fire Eaters

that’s better

laughter and streamers explode
from the eyes at the table
and the warmth is real, save the last dance

My two left feet

Forward

I’m always writing myself

Creating something

Erasing the lines made in error

Concentrating on the definition

I like grey scale 

and colour combined

And perfume – perfume all over the page

One day

One day dude, I’ll be a fucking 

masterpiece 

Contrition 

I forget the name, the place
but never the breeze – nor the blaze of your eyes as I muttered something
that amused you.
Our cheeks quickened in colour – the heat of burning wood
and us, together

That scene, it sings your name

pursed lips that said I was stupid but you liked it

No sence remains. It’s your birthday and I’m shut up behind you, like all the ones before

Flickers of past, like old photographs

but we don’t dance in arms coiled like the strangers in pictures
though we bathe in their stagnant silence – having no words but walls, walls so tall that I no longer know how to reach you

To teach myself how to climb

And there’s so much that remains
unsaid, undone.
Longing – lingering on the stonework
seeping quietly as buds of before blossom, murdering the very mortar of our seperation
providing hope for future flowers

It’s why I sit here, chisel in hand

It’s your birthday, again. I’m to blame and I miss you. Quietly.

Behind closed doors.

Words On Paper

My boy, you creep inside my skin

You look so pretty

Unsure where you and I begin

and where you leave me

I feel rain

I feel rain

I feel rain, more’s the pity

See me drown in your campaign

No chance of winning

I feel pain, I feel pain, I feel pain

I am bleeding

Cocooned in your sweater, all bloody stained

lose, never leading

writing letters to fix the blame

it’s all the same

It’s all the same. I feel rain