Saturday, 12 June 2021

Beast Nourisher

 Beast Nourisher

 

Sleep. Drawing curtains cross yesterdays,

like rain washing, colours running black

together on a half-remembered palette.

 

An amateur artist. Dips rush bristle brush,

mixing grey fogs with misty cloud crush,

blanking out past life on travelled canvas.

 

Was it only one day just gone he lived?

Alive and blinking, past and thinking,

begin again to build fresh character

in living dramas that show don’t tell

until old anxieties reassert in strength,

grey fears cast their shadows at length.

 

Suns dawn, rise and fall, arc and set,

sleep comes again, and he will forget:

 

The same stains,

the same rains,

flush the same black spiders,

down the same drains

backwards in gyres,

forwards in fires,

sleeping but forever tired,

nourish the beast 

with life's feast.

 

Her fingers comb his dream-mind ceaseless,

both ghost garden there, forever peaceless,

Until cracked his face like cracked his heels

rubbed sore on leather sandal satchel, feels

her strap across his back in welts and weals,

awakes anew yet always old, it never heals.




Friday, 11 June 2021

I Am Angel, Hear Me Roar

 

I Am Angel, Hear Me Roar

 

 

I am Angel now, here take my hand.

Can you not see a sweet black light?

It dances over our heads, passes

a baton, two relay runners barefoot,

grinding up grit, trod hard underneath,

to embed itself deep in skinned soles.

No need to run through closing doors:

Now I am Angel, and hear me roar.

 

Now I’m an Angel to shoulder burdens,

for so long driven into bleeding hands,

nails palmed, your secret aces flushed

on green baize, all wheels ever spinning

black on red, twisting fate’s games,

to roll the ball against my revolutions.

No need to cover your face and cry:

I am Angel, now watch me rise.

 

I am Angel now, Wendy, and your life

waits for a day yet to dawn. Scolding:

Scornful cold shoulders; all metal wool,

a panty pad pan scrubber that weeps,

leaking olive oil, yet to boil or sear,

leaving roads forsaken for roads of fear.

No need to sob, break into grinning,

I am Angel, now hear me singing.

 

Your Angel, Peter Pan am I, an Oberon

that does but beg a little changeling boy,

proud Titania. Sees soil on your hands,

fingers that do lick sticky seaside rock.

Look, he’s waving his arms, wiping grey

charcoal lines from your face’s barbecue.

Break not my spells and try recanting,

smile on Angel and kiss in chanting.

 

You were Angel, you held me all thralled,

so long waiting, never calling, crystalline;

while poor girls push rods into rose petals.

Still, my open arms in love outstretched,

bass guitar throbs in dreams unwracked,

Follow me wanton flesh, pulse wet spirits:

Look up, here’s Salt Peter, see me soaring,

while I am Angel, we’ll unite in roaring.

 

I am Angel, from darkness now returned,

to share with you what I have learned,

what we should keep, what must be burned,

your face a blank page that will be turned

and written upon. Strong ink strokes bold,

love’s nib inscribing, heats up what’s cold,

to new from old, from wrongs to rights:

Watch Angel now uprising in glorious flight.



Friday, 21 May 2021

Rare

 

Rare

 

 

Something so bloody rare, so really blue,

seared quick, flipped both sides and sealed,

piled lots on both plates, lover, high stakes,

so rare it’s scarcely found in your lifetime,

laid bare see true odds, one to one million.

So precious a gem, so priceless a metal,

blood red porcelain would not compare,

finest bone china in willow patterned story,

we read it in our drowsy sleep and weep.

Slips through your fingers while you watch

like mooring rope tugged by ebbing tides,

boats diverging toward grey horizons wide.

To throw this overboard, would be a crime

unsolved, file all lovers' records over time,

yet still spend long years banged up inside,

contemplate that most love is compromise.

Never to catch another skittering butterfly;

too busy pinning lives to red heart’s lies.



Angel Rising 3: The Extraordinary Adventures of A Writer

No Work for Tinkers' Hands

 

No Work for Tinkers' Hands

 

 

Oh, if I could cast off these 30 years,

believe me now, I would be hers.

Burn calendar’s unfriendly pages,

kissing mouths will roll back ages,

twisting tongues, fever our hands,

scream out ifs, buts, pots and pans.

Ripping off clothes in revelation,

hungry eyes’ scanty contemplation,

rise in swords, push jungles open,

take inside this love full swollen.

A fall of black fringe over dark eyes,

pants passion loud in deep disguise.

Oh, the perfume is heaven scent,

red gloss might shimmer in consent,

smile tossed scorn in my direction

does dazzle, she is indeed perfection,

gasp for breath, she strokes her hair,

choke on words that want for air,

her gaze questions if I'd even dare?

One fall will we sit, back to back,

for she will give me what I lack.

In a heartbeat I'd throw all of it over

for just one chance to be her lover.

Melt with lust knowing disdainful eyes,

take my hand and fall sweet in demise.


Tuesday, 18 May 2021

The Day of the Cat

 

The Day of the Cat

 

If I ask you to accompany me, offer loving arms,

to stand tall among rough thistle and ferns,

would lips curl and sneer, hard heart out of reach,

gasping like starfish aground on the beach?

Oh, I read in silver pieces, know I am right,

face down your heartbreak before you take flight.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I wrote words of passion and sang you my verse,

would you laugh in joy to hear love rehearsed?

Better at slating me; send out for a hearse,

my songs do not reach you, life only gets worse.

Oh, I think I read in stone words on my tomb,

your chrysanthemum fading lily white bloom.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I asked you to chase me, run wild through my mind,

unearth our deep forests, remain there entwined,

would you mock-up a soft sigh, to yawn and cry,

‘wolf, wolf’, shoot down sheep standing idly by?

Oh, I think those chestnut words stain your face,

translating anything true to some other place.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I stretch out to catch you, as you surely fall,

melt ice from your face when I pity your call,

sponge pain from the eyes you study in shame,

will you shoulder our balance of loss and gain?

Oh, I see us strongly in your weakening years

ripping pages from journals as pussycat purrs.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I give her my guitar, would she learn to play

sweet songs of tomorrow, sad songs of today,

burn mustard manuscripts of weary yesterday?

If I give her my pen, will she script our play?

Oh, I hear her calling from love’s future,

with sweet words to lay me down and tutor:

 

She cups me and teases, plays me like twine,

flashing forever eyes, she asks to be mine,

pleasure long and languid, devours salty wine,

summons me inside to cave soaking brine.

Oh, I feel new now as glad fountains outpour,

she lies back drenched and begs me for more.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.