F Hole

 

F Hole

 

 

There’s an F shaped hole in the Christmas tree,

a guitar shaped hole where some love should be,

and if he squints, he can see it right through,

not that peering is anything he’d normally do:

tantamount to careless, as in lacking care,

scrutinising something that clearly isn’t there.

Oh, it’s balanced, a give and take, yin and yang,

a dualism in sheathed swords, woman to man,

where years of strife led to tacit understanding,

rehearsed reasons, the season of Angels landing,

a pax, like grandson’s soft blanket, cheek high,

look up not back, here’s snowfall from the sky.

Has something fucked up this Christmas card?

Should be laughing out loud; it’s biting too hard,

if it wasn’t so commonly tragic, so depressing,

sucks out magic through straw-men blessings,

and look, here’s hampers for Ken, cards for Jack,

piled under the tree, the presents are racked.

And he would pluck that promised bass and extol

second comings, if it wasn’t for that fucking hole.

Monkey Puzzles Shed Leaves

 

Monkey Puzzles Shed Leaves

 

 

Perhaps it’s true who knows?

Iced frost will settle on fire

in cramps. Of warning dire,

it’s all powdered hoare

of thick suffocating snuff

but of cindered heat

there is still little enough.

 

Maybe you’ll read of

worlds blasé to story endings

writhing, its pediculus rending

a stumbled slipped disc,

in deep burgundy basilisk

which still briefly flares

between this and this.

 

Up there could you witness

backdrops of Stygian black,

twisted necks looking back

at plague, heat, flood?

A trifecta of nothing good,

but impulse persistence

continues coexistence.

 

Overhead; still beneath,

iron fissions in toxic cast, flint

space above, below and glint,

in germs of hobnail potential

squatting silent, existential.

Send decay, mistrust, strife

gifting us a half of half life.

 

Hubble bubbly, unlovely

cauldrons boil, gargling oil,

in etiquettes of filthy spoil:

trawl for toxic bouillabaisse,

toothpicking plastic waste,

choker beads, joker’s cough,

will not riffle sackcloth.

 

Slipping away ticks time,

watching an apocalypse dawning

hands over mouth yawning,

a people all over snaps itself;

publications for the top shelf,

weeping semi-healed scabs,

tik-tok, grab-bag, hard stabs

for last post aching fame

rolling riot; penultimate trains

puff out of second last stations,

Olympic record of stagnation,

pastel pants a shallow nation.

 

Frosted ice might snuff fire,

until in grit, another is lit,

and there’s the perfect fit.

 It’s true, all things do pass,

it’s hour come around at last,

through thick clotted trees

monkey puzzles shed leaves.

Slight Return

 

Slight Return

 

 

And why are you the one to suffer?

Do they call you a man,

then be woman enough to leave her

if just for a short while?

In yearning children lies a choice,

for see how she misses my voice,

she nightly fingers memories moist,

charting mazes where it all started,

strokes our likeness, hopeful hearted,

quick snapped just before we parted,

and weeps, only for a short while.

 

Back tracked overland, where

I ticked off oceans across stormy sky,

came hard about. Seamen tangled her hair,

sucking at salt that was lately there

in sticky ropey coils lain on her deck.

Jack Tar inspecting high crow’s nest,

she closed her eyes, to test and test,

and scarce can draw another breath

upon his return, she will be blessed,

and only in a short while.

 

You, with your brass wedding band,

your left hand down a bit driving ban,

your woolly blanket communications ban,

your banish everything you can ban,

your cancel you cancel me culture,

your pleased to say hello to my vulture,

who tears and tears daily at your flesh,

until still later, after all these years,

where the only dying done is death:

but just for a short while.

 

We’re both of us getting distant older,

look over shoulders at horizons colder,

but, then again, to few to mention,

passing each other to melt the tension,

without flicking your lids just once.

What’s that kicking at your can,

recalls in you that you had a plan?

Dust that's brushed beyond the pan,

flecks you of what you once believed,

that it’s not enough to talk of grief,

so feel it for a short while.

 

And why am I the one to return?

Do they call me a man,

with woman enough to need her:

if just for a short while?

Do I seek and tell you what I learned

or stand upon Cornish cliffs and burn

like Angel? To play you like this guitar,

pick ancient tunes that speak our scars,

scream we must be free or not to be,

gales disperse my words indifferently,

and the only one standing here is me,

perhaps just for a short while.

The Years that Divide us Must be Undone

 

The Years that Divide us Must be Undone

 

 

Our season is on us, and welcome she comes,

speaks years that divide us must be undone,

for we do not prosper, but in twilight live,

so unbreak my staff, my books to me give.

From shipwreck hard-shackled below salt brine,

salt lids slow crack open to protest crimes

never yours nor mine, broke yet unbroken,

split lips mutter truths that can never be spoken.

While full fathom five, your love fast does lie,

slumbers years down there, it beats still alive,

bathes in my memories, seeking to thrive,

in yearning looks up towards far heaven's eyes,

probe cloudy fingers through grey opaque waters,

combs fate’s fallen son, you plunged daughter.

Within thickened weed, time’s predators lurk,

corral orbed shoals, who turn wheels of murk,

spin tales of betrayal, doctor yarns of deceit,

skinders prattle of hurt; mastheads of defeat.

This season becomes us, awake love, awake,

stretch far your mind’s touch, my open hand take,

bestir you, bestir, from long untouched depths,

you’ll rise up from entangling seabeds yet,

Prospero’s Tempest blows hard passions strong,

and those years that divide us will be undone.