windblown & westbound

your crystalline lips haunt this room,
smeared red onto your pillow,
and a pout over my full name,
on the first page,
and the last page,
of the diary i photocopied,
when you kept bar, that summer,
bookends, one for the start,
and one for the tearfalls,
raindrops over fountain pens,
mascara smeared words,
surrounded by rouge infautation,
within withered cardboard walls.

crescendo

you were born 4 months late,
or me 6 months too early,
stuck on allegro and lento,
the horns are out of time,
& the strings a cacophony,
of snapping bows,
& dimmer glows,
every night your kisses missed.

scribbled

banshee screams over under through
my overwrought dreams
of hail stones and halos
half mumbled hellos
golden geese
& the patina of weathered limestone

sheltered boyhoods
funeral pallor falsehoods
cedars hold leaves
like mothers hide thieves
bolthole and priesthole
jumped bail/parole

repeatrepeatrepeattofade

he traces the same old steps,
following the lines of his regrets,
boots lying heavy, on and on,
down the path until it's done.

the wires leap and twine,
down the rails, all through time,
heartbeats and distortion,
limbs shiver in contortion.

anciens

it's been awhile, my lonely little blog...cast adrift onto the waves of the internet sea.
left to the sharks of the ocean to chew at its weary carcass

or alternatively, i forgot the blog for a while, screw the pretentious sixth form poetry. Probably not even sixth form. year five. year three. year r. nursery school. toddler. womb. egg.
egg poetry. that's what this is.
.
.
.
a spider crawls around the edge of my cobwebbed and dustbound bedroom.
il n'y a pas de soleil.
shutters are pulled tight, keeping out the wizened clouds that pile over ma maison. dans la campagne. dans la france. are my volcabulary skills impressing you? am i dazzling you?
no?

sorry.

i'm just trying to get by. i've barely moved from my crumpled sheets, and mattress more springframe than comfort. limbs withered to their scrawny bones, paralysed in slow, slow asphyxia. all i have is a phrase book, water damaged and dog eared, most of the typescript faded away.

i've been living off the tinned cans that line the walls. rustspotted and decades old. my faithful old pocket knife follows the typical literary conventions, and remains my faithful old pocket knife. sustaining me on tinned peaches and tomato soup.

each night i fall into a deep slumber, the static filled quiet lulling my brain into rapideyemovement.
a(sleep)

crashcymbal

i stumbled into work, bleary and broken from too little sleep, too many sketches.
the ache in my side was growing, eating away at my kidney, my liver, whatever I couldn't tell. guess it's from all the pretzels. it's all i can handle these days. my guts are rotting in situ. haven't slept in months. insomnia trapping me, i stay up. creating.
sketches, writing. trying to avoid the pretentions and cliches, so common place....
yet this is full of them....a plot done to death...i cant help it. no sleep comes as i try to dodge these words, try to find new ways of saying, writing, drawing....allusions, metaphors, similes.

someone let off a crashcymbal by my ear. please.
wake me from soporific lows, sparkling highs.
the world is full of crashing bores, cries the lyricist.
wax on/wax off.
fly away, fly away home
*clickclick*

moodhightothehoodcitybanksmoke

stimbling II

I walked out to my mud speckled Chevrolet, more dust than green metallic sheen. Chucking my shoulder bag in the back, I stuffed my savings into the canvas folds.

My eyes were buzzing, black shapes swimming across my eyes, like leaves in a river. Massaging my temples I tried to gather thoughts, extract espers and whispers and tapers from the sinkhole.

Plug pulled.

Taps running.

....lost it...gone....where?...out.....shift....back.....
What/why/when?

The river poured over me....