Saturday, 20 January 2018

1 New Poem

Rubber Burns

If we weren’t so rash about this,
so falling from stillborn skylarking
there wouldn’t be
the marking masks, the chewed bone
expressions on royal gold faces,
making mock time of crackling leaf
burn-ups , half-dawned realization
of blank space.

But, then, at least I am:
the first to know, last to speak
on all things great of heart,
all things pitch-blackened in depth.

So lily-shamed the crossing of
almshouse manner, we flicker
across boot-mud floor as
wax wicks in barn door wind,
contrasting creaking board,
drizzly coffee stains in this
warmer blanketed space;

I drown with cracking drywall dust.

Yet, still dreaming in crystal glass
of oceans still, rising times
from long-sought mist, there is
a hope undamaged for once from
impact:

A slumber’s together,
undisturbed.

Friday, 29 December 2017

1 New Poem

Rogue Sparks

Coming this way is cigarette ember,
put out on metal
receptacle ridge, wetted down with
ocean air and admiral fell
promises of evening balm,
of little flickers in pyre
wood, piled delicate between
sense memory of excitement
tied up with whipping chords

Of four-walled days, drawing
sense coming back metallic,
distorted, watery, no longer recognized.

To go out chasing,
the skywriting of surprise,
bowing to boot wash

But glowing there a
second more, the same
as ever.

Tuesday, 5 December 2017

1 New Poem

The Music Study

The fuse, the spark
was drawn out on matching
tables for the theatrics
of it all:

All-dancing showcase
of pastime blues, grinning
with new-wed promise,
grinning with minded property.

As it was drowned in shadow,
growing faint, weary as
tides scrape on sea-glass,
a cry came:

Spared of all evening’s cold,
dulling sense with floated radiation
warmth these are not a making
of dreams except as test patterns.

Coming up, a cleaner place
of it was made for mirrored
time, a hunting whiff of
old things leaving:

Like tragedies, staged readings,
the jig is danced to float
about with accordion breath,
not a pen-scratching sense.

Tuesday, 7 November 2017

1 New Poem

Clean Places

If there is some grander notion,
to these ether trailings
of sunlight across splendour brick
clicking of chatter heels against
stone, then it is unrevealed
against the washing of winter
coat flows, as much so as
under watchful burning
space of warmer times.

There may yet be some clockwork
design to the patching of curtain
draws on days too blank to
pass inside, yet still too knife-showing
to venture out.

Then go to some places, scrubbed
down and seeing to welcome,
but filed down from all threat,
tensed of all teeth-bearing exercise,
in the contemplation of old air
where you could belong.

Not even there, though, was
a planning pen found amid
rubbish bins, hesitant tea cups,
broken spindle casing,
there being no sketchbook
tracing of myself in famed
rooms.

Saturday, 28 October 2017

1 New Poem

Signatures

I am in ink here: scribbled
on the postcard back page,
time with penny weight distinction
to genius papers and arms
thrown around clumsy world
corners at trouble’s first
dodging sign,

Inked like a roadway graffiti
stop and drilling away in concrete
shelter time.

There wasn’t enough drippy symphonic
grandeur for the speaking of
tithes between us, not enough
to squint for sense in dark.

There are, still, pooling in reserve
the splotch-making touches, soft sound
rocking wide night as upturning
tin cans clack to stone,
the means to make this all ours
at a pace.

The hang, waiting for lie and
form to be given by paper
contract, wax seals on letter
back,

the kind I could never afford to send.

Monday, 16 October 2017

1 New Poem

The Jourdan Boulevard

Slipping between the broken paving stone,
shoes bleating a harried rhythm in rubber,
I move visibly, sallowed,
as a humbled painter,
staring blankly at the unblemished canvas
of even time:

coming through clearly, loud,
coming through in found feather ambiance,
the ego of lazy weekend wanders coming back
as united strumming on
bending jazz break corners.

The tuba honks in Metro
underpass drew a line
with pathway’s depth on
gold flake etching of what
it was in pas march to
dead hot wire, imperial
fantasia and the rest of
it.
There isn’t some idle hope
here: I’d be lying
to take it further, in shade of
wishing wells, giving trees.

Sunday, 8 October 2017

1 New Poem

Something of a Symphony

Sometimes, I am astronomical:
coiling against the pallid waterfall
of night bus stations, making
clock-face shapes with arm & leg,
as it drags still upon creeping
moonlight, upon rainy spitter-spatter
in these tonal illusions of
curious object left behind like
gaslamp papertrails for seaside
walks and camera flashes in
echo trace, still lives beating
on broken wood.

Some days I am unconquered:
the regimen of sugar drinks and
half-apologies still weighted against
youthful folly, railway gage
in vigilance of etchings,
though it is not so unbearable
now, the heating of jealous tempers
bears out a fruit of spun stories,
stilling and swallowed as ever
before.

Some illumination am I:
blinding snow angel along
the cliff pile of houses
we have here.