It's True R Paths Will 1 Day X

It's True R Paths Will 1 Day X 

It's true our paths will one day cross 

but not this time, this time was lost 

and I'm thinking just too late, or the late great

or fate she lately goes just so. 

Milk's souring clots of human kindness

turning love to hate and it's not too thin a line.

Sure, I'll shred that tea stained photo:

with one blood letting, one satisfying rip 

into two and there's the scab torn, 

just look at it water, no need for plaster, 

strike up the band aid, see them skip,

shouldering my box with ungentlemanly grip,

all intent, because the time is spent,

your vacant eyes with dry tears will drip,

tripping the heavy fantastic, all wobbling lip, 

as spades slicing soil bite undug graves,

well made up, putting on a face that's brave,

as towards black holes we all make pace,

more and more of us now pitched in at speed;

and I'm asking from shadows if you notice.

I feel your mind fill mine most nights 

and know who you are and who you're being,

trust in my heart while never seeing 

and just how many more years left, do you think? 

Your alcoholic leaves us, puts off

giving up just one more drink, well, so.

It's true our paths will one day cross; 

but I'm careless - I give up this love for lost. 

Have struck but this much show of fire

 Have struck but this much show of fire

 

It’s true our paths could someday cross,

I should not give up this love for lost,

yet sometime waking up, you just know

that razor will slip between nose and lip

and bit liquid will drip from skin on porcelain,

until my mingled blood is watered down.

 

Hands tremble, or our eyes that cannot see

quite as well or clearly or what might be,

skate round yesterday’s wound today

in dismay will feel that old liquid issue,

press crimson morsels ripped from tissue

to keep it from going before it comes around.

 

This fluid that leaks from two chambers into air

does so slowly, at first don’t notice it there,

wipe it on your cuffs, your sleeves, to wear

it like a red badge. My Arab tan that burns

from desert sun conceals in callouses coming,

old flames that are doused by rivers running.

 

It will never quench thirsts or in rapids rush,

but these droplets fall enough to just brush

the day, they invite comments and stray words

to tear up your picture. Spoken and then heard

they ink lines of hardness into lines of face

that can in blood be tracked and traced.

 

I doubt now our paths will ever cross,

while I’m here unfound and you are lost,

and it’s dripping, slipping out and far from

where we cannot catch it on our tongues,

yet it’s still true that you did this inspire

and have struck but this much show of fire.

Hearts of Blade and Steel

Hearts of Blade and Steel

 

Come, Time: minister to her needs,

root up fruits that once were seeds

and carpet over her past with killed flowers

of many coloured coats. March on upon

petals with steel heart full of blades 

and songs to shield yourself from mirrors.

Thicken her skin into leather hide

impregnable, and repel entreating throng

with words of little done does little wrong

while inside her head their burden swells

with stone eyes that look upon her long.

Come, Time: all’s well that ends well

it’s said, rest her thumping head on steel bed,

stained more, stained less in bladed dread,

steeled heart to stain Time’s tears instead.

The Big Sky

The Big Sky

 

Once upon a Highland day, snow had fallen

and frozen ever after a world closed in

of blocked roads and schools closed.

Mountain trappings, halfway to the big sky

and he might reach Jacob’s ladder

if only he pulled her blanket neck tight,

tucked in with more of a snarl than a grin.

She’s sending him away with a snowball,

white flakes all in tight tourniquets   

and each individual packs clenched ice

to sign the future, but here, but now,

but a little way above his head: the big sky.

To fight alongside her imagined children,

these gay coloured striplings in red, in bed,

in anywhere else but here, don’t fear the trek

for stringed mittens hanging loose from sleeves

adorn snow-white branches of pine trees,

and hoary the cracks upon frozen lochs.

Only a little way down the track

looking back at her world closed in, falling

all those flakes, each its own gem within

the thickening skin, wipes icy nose with icy glove,

must suffocate below here or here rise above.

That You Did Love Me, I Am Nothing Jealous

 That You Did Love Me, I Am Nothing Jealous

 

 

That you did love me, I am nothing jealous.

Some memories, mostly drab,

for only bad cements and stamps us.

Penny dreadfuls, penny blacks,

tacky hinges you claimed you’d licked

but only some of them that stick.

 

That you did rule me, I am nothing measured.

Your face once peered, incurious

about what I do or ever did,

falls hail farewell; your measured grip

cold ice that froze my squirming blood,

so hard the hand that slips the glove.

 

That you did raise me, I am nothing grown.

Quick set, firm hatred gums my heart

and I was glad when we did part

that squally day and years have flown.

My thoughts this world unsettled roam 

never think one day I must come home.

Cobbled Together

Cobbled Together

 

Who walks amongst us barely notice

that we are rocking cobbles underfoot

unsettled as firm in concrete as others,

and why in hell would they?

Nothing to see here, move along.

Perhaps secretly you wish they'd think

about how overlaying smooth tarmac,

hides cracks, saves turned over ankles

from splintering as they twist and shout,

'if so, what’s that all about?'

you might fairly ask, pass me by with a wink,

remarking that we’ll meet on set in the sequel,

to Next Life and Life’s Next, but equally

why not now? If age shall wither her,

cobs left too long on the windowsill crumble,

sans strings, a used T Bag sags off, grumbles

about tea-leaf parchments browned, dried,

ready for some thrown together display.

Cobbled heels feel worn, under shod,

and once so full, so proud, so breasts sag.

Inevitably, we resemble those same 3 hags,

who round and round the cauldron stumbled  

muttering words pleasing to touch,

but don’t overthink our ruins too much,

just catch shot bolts out of black and blue,

well old, once bold, grown cold, still found

riding storms, throwing scorns, stepping on

those better set cobbles together.

After Church

 After Church

 

After church, doors flung open wide

swell silky perfumes from inside,

come the patient penitent full rectified

and as those last notes of sung song rise

will she now run to me in hot rushes.

And I have my own worship in mind,

soft scented pillows to rest her head,

fresh frosted sheets enfold hot bed

in dark clotted cream chocolate melt

they brush blushed cheeks like felt

as hush falls here among trimmed bushes.

What we plant within grows long,

grows wild, grows roots firm and strong,

she will not fight with me; here instead

in thought, in dreams, in tangled threads,

in tangy flower beds our shadows fled.

Soon see those doors spread open wide,

singing such songs, for here she flies

to rest honey head upon lover’s cries.