Wednesday 2 November 2011

Kept envelopes

it was your idea

- to write letters

you saw it somewhere

somewhere someone gave some other a pot of words

and unless you had it too it was unfair

we were fresh as a new page in an age of scared

I was Charlie Bucket

opening with a tear

that first message won me

like a posted pair of undies

smothered me dumb deep inside the unseen

with my tongue creased

and my mind drunk at the beach

or in a ring fumbling for my feet

between each round being sponged down by the priest

at sundown I would reach

into your breath where I’d eat

or take early to slumber

for those nurseries of opium

I tucked hope in them, woke in them

walked every week they came in the slope of them

and at the podium of my pen I pressed

stood undressed

waved at my mess

and declared that every four seconds I think of you…

every four seconds I think of you…

every four seconds I think of you…

each stint with you on the end of my stamp

emptied the bank

scooped the pennies off the floor of my heart

and ended with thanks

you left me just blanks

and I’m firing them at all that followed you out the door

who knows what I’m crouching here for

maybe the ground can shroud me from yours

and you can ask around for your round of applause

find someone as compelled, as astounded by law

to be housed in his core

but I was a coward

I had one last letter to write

but by then I had climbed to the crest of your light

and my confessions that I’d sketch you turned trite

while I rested a second shadow had crept into sight

so I left you that night…

you loved me through little lines that caged that whispered time

when I touched your hand and you gave me your ribs to climb

I’d never discovered a belly I needed more

Mi amor, I drew you pornographic pictures

and it was sweet

and I coloured in your feet

O Lauren, I cannot sleep

it was your idea

- to write letters

to bruise, to blind, to make your memory relentless

to lipstick stain, to stick, to construct an empress,

to bottle, to reign, to paralyse senses

to magnify, to terrify, to adjectivize endless

‘To Lori, I hope you’re smiling J

Wednesday 18 May 2011

Holidays


i can’t be on the phone long

you’ll see They twist every breath and every piano key

so just listen to the last of my voice, stranded





i sleep outside now

in this starry room.

the gunners with us swoon

at the wicked lemon of my thoratic bloom

which are embers of the Infinite

spelling soon

do not ingest what they tell you when they tell you about me

it was never hate

they were never civilians

and the smiles on our dead would have given you too over to the green birds

Friday 1 April 2011

Goodbye


“They said that there’s nothing more they can do. He’ll be conscious for an hour or two and then that’s it. You’re gonna have to hurry.”

“Mmm. Is he comfortable?”

“They’ve given him morphine and he’s calm.” he's not crying anymore

“Well, let us know what happens then.”

“You’re coming though?”

“Probably not. We’ve got a lot to do.” hammersmith

“A lot to do?”

“Yeah.”

“Your son is about to die.”

“Well, he doesn’t need us there. We saw him just the other day.”

“Last month actually. And he does, he’s asked for you.”

“It’ll take us too long.”

“The drive’s a maximum of forty minutes, even with traffic.”

“The car won’t make it.” she can’t drive, she has no idea

“Well, if you suddenly break down for the first time ever then I’ll reimburse you for the travelcard. Alright?”

“Nah, it’s a busy day today. We’ve got to do the shopping, we’re going to Nan’s, then there’s the evening. It’s gonna be too hectic.”

“Your son is going to die. Do you not want to see him?”

“Of course. Today is sudden.” if it were tomorrow, is there any possibility he’ll

“There are no other days.”

“Well.”

“I can’t believe this. You’re sick.”

“Tell him we love him.”

“I can’t tell him that in truth, can I? Will anybody come?”

“I dunno, you’ll have to call them, but I think they’ve all got things to do too.” listen, I need to go now

Monday 3 January 2011

The hospital called, I returned to sleep


The algorithm for love

is too easy

and the cancer moves in too late

that’s why tragedy is never really that tragic

If only people cried for this

there would be so much less crying