The Arc

The old and the dying
Stood hand in hand crying
Over the winter that came knocking
When they were busy talking:
Of the winter that won’t come knocking
When they are busy talking

Brushstrokes In My Brain

O these times
These lonely, lonely times
Of a single tear falling
From a broken, crooked eye
For the meadows sunk in shadow
And shadows that each day die
On the tar road turning homewards
To pink hearts falling from the sky
O these people quietly standing
Waiting that single boat of hay
Here are lovers with their children
And servants with silver tray
All waiting to be carried
Somewhere in the ocean
Where faces are not of plastics
And even fishes have emotion
O these homes are now softly falling
Like snow on winter’s eve
Left faded to fill a dry canvas
With damp colors smelling new
And there is no one to wake the silence
And no one to hold the door
Only brushstrokes that breath to say
We are here for you are not anymore

Ascendance

And slowly we all
Shall fall asleep
And know no more of each other
Or of those who knows us no more

But the stone shall remain stone
The sea shall remain sea
You shall remain you
And I shall remain me

Yet we, the us, that immutable thereof
Of shared spaces
Of pendulum breaths
Of eclectic existence
Will change
Into dust
Into wind
Into silence
And rescind
Motion by motion
Memory by memory
Till all that is left
Is only the sense of leaving

The Soft World Shenanigans

Dry roads humping shredded towns
Ghostlicked with cactus eyes quietly watching
Deeper dreams
For answers within answers
For silence within screams
I see, I see
Footsteps upon gravel
And red lips on ice
Dissolve
In purple chimney smoke,
Behind the farts of dust- rimmed truck,
Where the grey haired goats grazing in saltpits wonder
Why the fairies don’t give a fuck
Clippety clop, clippety clop
Horse hooves on silent sand
Burnt toast, stale butter, wooden knife in my hand
I see, I see
Tears and bright ties
Choking velvet throats
Those colouring the white lies
Like spit on anchored boats
Bell jars in cotton
Woodpecker in denim
Breathing tinfoil fantasies
Of midnight mind raining, whispers upon paper:
‘Wheatfields underwater
Ether in eclair
Cornflakes made of daylight
And tulips in dark hair’
I see, I see
Last thoughts of dying beasts
Merge with me
So that I roar and I bleat
Being eaten as I eat
My own war-torn monkhood
My altarboy retreat
So I see, So I see
Dry roads humping shredded towns
Ghostlicked with cactus eyes quietly watching
Deeper dreams
For answers within answers
For silence within screams

The Night

• 

The Night smiled and the world froze into a mirror:
An eye without eyelids
A face without feature
But timeless in its taste
Like truth without teacher,
With flowers on her forehead
And sweat upon her thigh
The sea painted on her toenail
And the sun a firefly
Dancing just dancing
On her gold lips as lullaby

And oft she would curl up to sleep
Unwanting to know the names
Of those who suckled her milk
Only to sell it for pixie dust
And white rum to last a lifetime of
Blood on her hands
Flames in her hair
Dreams stitched in her dresses
Leaving her perpetually bare

Pendulum minds
Prone to tongue tennis and cold showers
Stare out the window
At the hips of dark roads
Fading under street lamps
Like sunset on a shore
Shriveled drops of moonlight on their face
And she watching the cold blue sky
And those blind stars; invisible,
Laughing in the background
Like extras from silent films
Happy to beheld
The recurring eternity
Of everyday life…