Bliss/agonyI exist in blissful agony,
action will render this feeling
but there will be no return to this combined state;
no joyous rips of stomach tissue
when presented with feelings, and no
digging in of the fingernails to a place called heart
in response to imagined future.
I have brought this doomsday on myself. When I wake from dreams
and feel a trembling heat, I know hope is on my heels. I just need
to walk to a place of clarity. The sky gives me an option,
asks me to act,
and threatens apocalyptic fire fights in clouds if I do, and make the wrong action,
and offers a sky serenity to walk through if I do, and make the right action.
I buckle holding the fate of myself in my hands. I have
brought this doomsday on myself,
by opening to life.
For this I traded in
a white board sky, a dull ache,
that I could neither write on
nor pull around me, stealing comfort. Just
an existence of death in blank.
I stand on the top of the worl
Ward oneShe felt a rush of cold air, it came from under a door.
Left open too long, and flurry dances of dust did their piece on the floor
then reached up to hold a nose and lungs.
The woman is held tightly by a rectangular hallway.
There is a waterfall heave of settling down a carrier bag
and a look
into a front room
still, delivered from dead voices. No longer hear their words, just know
whatever they were,
they must have been better than nothing. One of the spines on the bookshelf reads
'What To Say
When You Talk To Yourself.' Tins fit in snug
in a larder
still big enough for two. Now filled with tins.
The dust created a man
Sunday evenings, there's always
a crossword in the paper. And newspaper makes
castles and treasure maps and pass-the-parcel
for little hands that play with uninhibited laughter. The man
holds with kindness two little hands
to make a tower with white playing cards. He settles back
when it all falls down;
places his laughs into the eyes of the woman,
his own eyes bulging,
Feather peopleI hold your feather hand, falling free
aren't we all
until we reach the ampersand? In between
you, I'm something.
They said you had a stroke.
It doesn't seem to have made much of a difference;
your cloud eyes still pour out that over familiar
But no, I lie. I am a liar, and
a coward to your fingers. I am miles away
and my fear resolve won't be sucked away
like all the days
our boiled sweets dissolved. I collect feathers that float on the sea
I won't have them drown; evenings I
preserve them in alcohol, press out their fragility
and make art for the corners of hospital waiting rooms.
They contain the possibility
I hold no one; I'm nothing.
It's facing annihilation, dear,
there's no need to cry. Like you always said,
you have had a good life.
For a while we were contained in something. On this liquid we both floated.
In the eiderdown fresh of silence I try remotely
to hold your hand
I hold your soul
until the tortured exhale, because
I can't hold your
doushiyoumonaiThe siren that has legs upon the ceiling
the words that surface in sound have no connection
'Why,' he says,
'what an excellent example of being.'
she left the spoons settled on the table when she left
now shadows of them bend throughout the evening, growing in blackness, waning
and I feel I do much the same; I feel like
I still hear the echo of her pristine living fingers on their flat metal tongues
searching through time, I'm just bricks
and I'm strung together with a carrier bag soul and a song for no one
I'd be touched if you would set a place for me
but I'd arrive two hours early and leave an hour before, leaving one note
I'm afraid you're right
just you and me on the ceiling, sharing consciousness,
just you and me on the ceiling, devouring the spilled moments of day
you pulled the napkin through my throat, now I'm
all knives and broken buttons
she had carried s
Her lightWaking eyes were always bathed in lamp light;
good morning (knowing she'll feed you)
good night (knowing she'll hunt you down)
In the 1970s pink shade
the truth was emitted by the serene colour sound;
that evenings are containers pushed forward to existence, beckoning for peace and love
One time she held her arm out to you -
uncertainty, was this what she wanted?
There were parallel bodies
held under pink light
but you saw teeth in her nails and as your head found a place
in the buoyant arm that was so warm and fresh from bathing
you felt terrified
and your mind placed demon features on her when you glanced up at her face
She robbed you of language
and in low lighting you always feel engulfed as if by the pressing of flesh
you're far away now
in the blackness of a night there are disembodied squares of illumination,
angled block stars thrown over a landscape of buildings -
like a cat flap of skin
like an oblong leaking tongue
like a clamping coffin lid ha