Poetry

Dominoes

We come to it again,

this meeting of stories about futures we’ll never know

because the future we’re making

is far better than those.

But we’re curious, even though

such hypotheses may make us sad,

could we, if we needed, have stayed silent

and not gone mad?

 

If we’d gone through life

as best friends forever,

would you have told me if you’d fallen?

Fallen in the way that you fell for me in this present,

undeniably, inescapably, euphorically

in love.

 

Would I ever have brought myself to tell you?

I might have thought it would ruin our friendship –

that’s what all the other accounts say.

But to deny my feelings is to deny myself of their worth, of yours.

 

I don’t think silence would have sat well with me.

I don’t think she would have done for you, either.

Our entire premise

is that our hearts and wounds are open

for the other to fully see.

Poetry

Falling

Spirit. The spirit in your bones,

In your flesh,

Lurking in the fine connections of your brain.

Lightning. Ideas. Drive.

Dive from the precipice,

Weightless and heavy, both.

Free falling

Into the beautiful chaos

Of the lifestream,

Igniting your inner universe.

There is no disappointment,

No fear, no expectations.

Only the blinding essence

Of you.

Poetry

Bleed

In order to know someone,

bleeding yourself out into a cup

and letting them drink it down

is sometimes the only way.

It lets them taste the salt in your wounds

and the nectar in your view

of the intricacies of life,

spinning and turning

through every step you’ve taken

to reach this point.

Let them see your shackles, your restraints,

and trust them

when even if they say they don’t have the power to break them,

they can still aid you

as you rid them yourself.

It may take decades, aeons,

a million fractals of your stitched and glued and re-stitched heart,

but they’ll be there through all of it.

Just give them opportunity to take that first sip.

Poetry

Up to those eyes

In them we see

sugar and spices,

an apple pie baked full of ideas

all original.

Of course they’re original,

they made them,

enveloped them in tangy sauce

sprinkled with cinnamon

we find out is actually chilli.

Oh, and the homemade pastry?

That came from a shop.

Poetry

Aftermath

An hourglass drains gently,

The sand filling the gaps in her mind.

Flashes  of  trees,  the tang

Of burnt rubber tyres,

The man in the road,

Arms  outstretched  in a forced

Gesture of  greeting.

Death’s thin, precise blade cutting  deep  into

His chest.

 

 

Poetry

Phone line

I ask you where your eyes

find light – your mouth

falls down the back wall

to the receiver, hanging

limp by its cord, mumbling

love and family like trickles of water

flowing into a drain. Not

a downpour. Perhaps

I should have asked

a different question.

One that you’re more comfortable with?

 

Poetry

King Mold

Among the breeding rot – whispers.

I hear them stretching through arthritic

tongues. Knife to bone,

crown to head, head of the table

where judgement resides on platters of

purple skinned grapes already coated

with penicillin.

Yes, the medicine, I’ve taken it,

drip feed from a babe.

Things that are not normal

flag as normal.

Things that are. Obviously insane.