Journey

if, in the end, it doesn’t matter
we can dance in the road
make love in the afternoons
touch fingertips and then pass
unbroken on, dreams uncurling
smoke ripples, water ripples
light ripples, we ripple on
the moment fading vibrato

into the next
salt and sea, the grit
smoothing the way for next year
though we choke, and eyes sting
on all that flowed through us
and the debris that collects
in salt stained heaps

until a match is struck
green flame takes twisted limbs
and turns them to ash

it comes and goes

it lingers in the twilight
between all that could be,
all that was, all that would be
where dreams take down our names
and no more, the rest is shadow
like the curves of the body
splayed in elegant disposition
and so dispossessed

spasms are the art of poetry and pain
although this retching is ungraceful
and the stomach flexes vibrato
from one regurgitation to the next
the jumbled remains of a wild night
spent dallying with wit and wisdom

Swan Song

“Hey!” Reno snapped his fingers at the girl behind the bar. She glanced over to him, harassed.

“There is a queue,” she said pointedly.

“I can see that honey,” the red-head jerked his thumb to point behind him. “What I want to know is where I can get a piece of the action?”

She glanced to where he pointed to the cage in the centre of the bar. The rusting fencing stretched from floor to ceiling, marking off a rough square.

“The fight’s off. Cancelled. Someone from Shinra caught wind of it.” she pulled two pints dripping foam from under the taps and slammed them onto the bar.

“Oh yeah? Where’d it move to?” Continue reading Swan Song

Solace

a tangled splay of sweaty limbs and god knows i want you to take me away from all this

let me wake up tomorrow, let me wake up without dreams of death, let me wake up to a sunsplayed day, let us make love, let us create a little dream that barrs the world, let me take solace in your body and let the moments stand for themselves and themselves only.

Take this dust and make a star

I am lost in this slow unfolding of a dry and dusty life. I dream of blazing starlight, of fires and last stands, of the easy knife-edge choices, of life or death, of love and passion without consequence.

But here, in this twilight zone, in this dusty unravelled world, where there is nothing left but consequences, where all those knife-edge dramas left a wake of complex misery that beats like a drum through the decades.

The truth, my love, is that I never deserved you. That your bright-light whirlwind illuminated me, but I never found how to glow from within. I am faded, and old – forever and always old, but I wore your youth and beauty for a while.

These days tick slowly by, and everything I was runs through my grasp. Long nights of driving through the darkness in a bubble of music, the fevered lusts that ran backwards through my finger-tips, the fantastical land that I wove between the silences you left for me.

Now, now, I am too tired to dream, those aching sorrows have left me empty and dry, immune to those knife-edge dramas. I watch the sun bleed away, and allow everything to unravel.

It is forgotten.

A Shire

I will tell you a story about a shire. The terraced houses clustered tutting over the fag ends in the street below. The pubs spewing out crowds who shout at each other in slurred accents that carry the illusion of a memory of wealth. The shrugged shoulders of green hills holding silent traces of a first night, skirts hitched up, eyes filled with stars, a discarded condom anonymous graffiti to a moment in time. The honourable great house, sold now to a Russian to pay for a string of fast cars and a decade or two of dilapidation. The kids sloping through the quiet streets in aimless pale imitation of their urban counterparts.

Pretty little houses standing empty five days in seven, the teenagers not staying in to admire the Aga, but drawn to the council estate where a father cooks up a massive round of bacon sarnies dripping with butter and ketchup and serves it to the group giggling over the hyper-violence of the latest triple-A. Libraries are shed like leaves, curling into ash and swept away by a cold wind from the South. Old men, faces lined with years of regret, stare silently into the frothy pint from a dingy little bar in a side road that few remember. History curdles in the middle of the day, polite words drift against the buildings in sloughed off heaps of pleases and just fine thanks and you?

Fragments of pottery dug up every planting season, a school stuffed to the seams and decked out with sharp-toothed railings. Worried eyes flicking to the BBC news, and pausing every now and then to follow the birds as they swoop ecstatically against the sky and shriek warnings to any who will listen.