Spasms

A dimmer switch I couldn't be,
Flickering till the filament bust.
Unfulfilled spark round bits of rust,
switching off so easily.

In cave men times I'd be a fire,
Cursing at my ember glow,
whistling with a hollow puff,
remembering what it was to grow and
roar and be a fire again.

To have men chant and women thud,
praise my warmth and call it home.
The comfort that it hurts to touch.
A symbol in the dark.

Not some faltering spark,
spitting out what death will choke
- spasms of unthinking heart.

Murmer

I stand outside in the slim rain, the low static of my brain blending seamlessly with the grey murmur of the slipping air.

I am on the verge of becoming part of their pattern - when I discover this envelope with my hands.

I notice knuckles under rain drops; finger skin on paper angles.

Against the white noise of my placid thoughts I hear something beating inside it.

Why do I get the feeling of having forgotten my own name?

All closed up there is a language inside this envelope that I made, but that I didn’t write down: I never spoke out loud.

Instead kind and un-named doctors have excavated this primal tongue from my body with electrodes and sanitised hands.

I remember now. The scholars of the people’s body were mouthing long worn phrases at me:

‘Are you scared? Are you the kind that prays?’

‘No, no, thank you – I don’t believe in god, and I do not fear the pain.’

Frankenstein, they say, Frankenstein is why some people scream and cry – I imagine them, wringing their hands like incoherent mothers at the side of crosses.

‘B movies have a lot to answer for, but as you can see there is nothing horrifying here.’

Yes, you’re right, there is nothing here. No electrocution, no sickness, no death, ever. Not here. This is just a house of waiting rooms and lifts going up. A palace of synthetic noise – where a whirring whirring King lives out his days as a fridge-hum – content to conquer me by leaving me my eyes but making my mind dumb.

So I lie down: a complaisant plank on hospital blue.

A clock ticks gently in the hall: dull, dull, dull yourself gently down the stream.

A nurse-o-matic walks past me out of the room, leaving me with a grey octopus.

The octopus wakes up and slowly stretching out, it lays its tentacles on my skin and starts suck -sucking on my chest – harvesting beats to build a map of my inside for the envelope.

Line, line, cross reference, aVL, Caucasian, co-ordinates, -4, 0, -5, V4.

The octopus purrs. I don’t understand what it’s mouthing.

Confused I close my eyes, only to find myself outside in the rain – standing there with an envelope addressed to someone else.

A whole institution between me and my heart.

Because I couldn’t possibly understand. I could never understand this dead language that only lives in me.

I Will Flower in the Morning

Green, orange and blue flowers sit between us,
as we sip coffee and gently talk about our day.
A warm glow illuminates the room of our life and our speaking mouths,
as we begin to balance out our needs and plans.
Slowly building an invisible bridge between us,
amongst the moving of lips and cups, fingers to wood:
we are building.
Brick by brick,
word by consideration and word,
till it's strong enough to stand on,
till it's hard enough to hold us both,
frail enough that when I leave I take you will me.
When we are together like this there is always a laugh in my breath.
I am ready for you to make me happy, as I know you will.
You open me as a flower does,
making me accept the light and watering I need.
Just as I wish to protect your delicacy from harm:
be it harsh winds or harsh words.
You make me believe that I am equal to you in spirit and beauty.
You make me believe that I do not grow alone in this chaos of life.
You can be an oasis if you wish,
brought to me in tiny kisses and thoughtful eyes,
that think of me even when I don't realise.
We have both chosen willingly to sit at this table together,
accepting eachother's love happily.
We breathe in unconditional colour:
the colour of cornflowers,
the colour of coffee in the morning,
the colour of honest love.

(Dedicated to the marriage of my aunts Laka and Karen - celebrating 20 years of happiness)

Untitled

Unrequited love is heaven sent,
To best and test the worst of us,
To be refused is hell enough,
For who would live if not to love?

The Moon and Diomedes

“Think Diomedes and give way, do not aspire to be our equal. Immortal gods and men that walk on the earth are not of the same breed.”

O Selene

I dug my

Black pristine shield into reflectionsand,

And Like a seal with a ball

I pivot on edge, and reach for you.

Colossal,

Black narcissus blooms above me.

Unravelling the bruising craters of your face,

A woundpearl lost in a woman’s silk dress

calmly

Revealed,

Your eyes move in portions over this earth.

Mole-eyed naissance, dirt-trodden

you are a button half done

O with a crack-punch mouth

God,

my glass balloon, was it me?

The Metal man.

Smudging your craters 

Virgin,

I’ll wash off death in your rising water

Just to paint myself in your image. 

Oliver's Poem

You took me away for the day

I don’t think you know what this means:

The boyish charms, the tee-peed schemes.

Yet unpicked seams of a dress, I must confess, I chose to wear especially:

a cardinal sin to be unpresentable to another person’s parents.

Too wet for croquet, too sweet to go with what we ate: our conversational revelry

bashing at the conservative gate.

The reveille of the forces of morning could not come too late. For me.

So please, disregard the things I said: to misconstrue a pew for bed?

I got to watch the tree-trunks, slip into paper-crowns,

as the golden vault struck shy and bowed down to its deep brother.

A pierced, imposing lover for the earth, a dark drama here unfolding for our mirth.

But we’re not even watching, even the scenery was resting:

Somewhere a myriad of fields of cut-out trees and cardboard cattle,

lent waiting and unseen, propped-up by an endless ceiling.

The rooms spoke bravely of parents that had laced and stitched long lives upon the walls,

threaded private moments to the brick,

to let visitors walk in soul encrusted crooked halls.

Its as if rosy-fingered dawn, through the windows, had dug her finger-tips in tight,

and laid down her dreaming through the house,

coloured ink to paper,

a vibrant home to rest her might.

You said without a word: not everything is so extreme

that tears the sky , gives cause to dream –

there is poetry in subtlety.

The tiny pin-strokes of a hand that’s kind, a forgotten flutter of a young boy’s cry:

This corner a broken knee? This one to check their height?

That is the only wealth that I could ever envy: a history not written down, or closely leather

bound, but organic in its flight.

So if war is done, why not try this peace: that drooling melt where words do cease?

Helped by the high spirits of spirits, and the jolly bottoms of bottles -

Here by your fire I’ll teach myself to be quiet; the rushing mind, that ashen rain, will drip

as butter back into my life.

SILVER THOUGHT/MOMENT

O my friend -
                         we did a bad thing.
My Roman Virtue shattered in
          the clatter of a ring.
Circling up and down: a pulsing wave upon your floor.
We stepped around its silver hush,
   till it sounded out no more.

I'd like not to admit - since we said our goodbye
but behind my back the world is troubled,
by that little metal cry.