Sunday, March 04, 2007

call and response

night comes in so fast
accompanied by damp cuffs,
tight throats and fatigue.

But our breath is call and response.

rebounding verse and chorus
from lung to lung.
in strained second hand
streetlight
i saw the pattern at the foot of our bed
reassembled its components
and made a threat
to outline our security.
Time keeping is not my strong point, so apologies for anyone who has been disappointed by the lack of new posts. However, like buses, here are two at once.

foundations

Relations are a shady deal if left
to themselves.
feit breeds counterfeit until clear
from wall to wall,
the foundations disappear.

it’s all too hard to climb down,
back down
without sight,
push onwards, upwards,
to a jump and a flight

or is it a push? it’s hard to know which one
wants
& which one needs.
they certainly don’t; i’m so tired,
pressing eyes against their grey glass
no actions – only reactions.

in the balance i take no part
my scales not being what
they were.
i’ve been led, now i am lead.
toxic & inert exacting pressure only
downward,
hoping to press back to the foundations.

Sunday, November 19, 2006

It's Haiku Sunday again, so with no further ado...

Call to your mind then
take to your heart. An oracle,
if broken or holed.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Woolly, Buried and Unearthed


A former life brazen, swallowed sodden by the shoreline.
Laid low by knee injury, a lesser mammal may have
Abandoned hope. But he advanced, tortured slow
Down to the waters before kneeling like Nazareth, sedate
And kingly called the sea to take the disability. Too late
Did he realise his arrogant error, too slow and swallowed whole
On the beach of his temple, resurfacing to be scavenged and
Have his corpse garnished with faeces, the bones gnawed clean.

Strange to be reborn by the pelvis then, a knowing wink
Toward tradition, the correct body part in a faulty role.
Then a swift departure encased in plaster

In time, had he lain longer, toothy marks made firm
Would be permanent, their channels solid in stone
And his dodgy leg healed fifty thousand years after.

Monday, November 06, 2006

For the second time in 24 hours I find myself addressing a silent and invisible audience. Also for the second time, I worry about two things. First, will anyone read this or is it a wordy piss in the wind headed unavoidably for the easily stained crotch of my ego? Second, will I mess up on something technologically simple, so simple in fact that when my error is noticed people will literally laugh themselves shitless, causing irreparable soiling of internet cafe seats everywhere?
Testicles. This is my official line as of now, so for any explanations, enquiries, FAQs or further complications please refer yourself back to the previous sentence. That is all.

On a lighter and possibly less defensive note, here's a stupid poem.

"It's like a morgue in here..."

There is a ghost in the house.
It hangs around
In the breath between vacuums.
Ask to help and
You only get grimed smiles,
A nicotine sigh.

It has no form and will appear
At the worst moments,
though may be there at better ones.
This can be disconcerting.

If only they featured things like this
On Attenborough or Crime Watch,
So when they appeared in real life we
Could identify, admire and appreciate
Before chasing it out with loud noises
and tricyclics.