Blue Dancer

Ridden and solemn She lay.
Her lean frame sang of transcendence
once so fluid and lost amongst itself.
It had happened suddenly, ravaged:
She was replaced.
Her breath, once paced in steady anticipation,
now spat in sporadic non-rhythm and
everyone remembered but her.
Their memories grasped and felt, as though
she would appear alive and dance for them
one
more
time -
but her shoes lay untouched.
Her feet moved only in unconscious irritation,
hearing no colour – which once would
help her pace,
and seeing no sound:
a useful aid
to her graceful two-step.

This was not a pitied loss on
her part.
She no longer remembered
the experience of Blue.

Murmurs

And the murmurs never cease,
And no, they never stop.
Like the tides are never still, beaten by
A Lunar light: roaming recklessly, perpetually
And the leaves entertain our mud-shy paths
As the rain induces hankered laughs
Yes, plants forever trying, and the farmers dully sighing
And fires slowly burning, licking skin that’s softly yearning, for
Wine forever flowing, its lust-filled grapes are knowing, of
The groans, they never halt as they dampen crumpled sheets

And though I’m never
living,
And though we’re always
dying
My body walks, gladly breathing sin
My mind is wrought, encased within
Four white washed walls,
Water slowly falls,
weeping gently down
the tiles.

Fade

From the other side
I hear it
A gentle wave of loveliness
seeping through the ground
attacking the roots holding me firm
over here
Loosening cryptic knots
untying laces holding together
the fragments of mind
lost in folds, the stitches are all wrong
undoing
undone
gone.

Her

As sunlight crowns her head
warming her cheeks that soften her face
and smile for her.

“We’re Fine”

Oh, another night rolling slowly by
as those lilting notes, cascading and
riotous, comfort the limbs pacing hard
inside those clouds resembling my dreams
far above the blackened sky.

I cannot hope to dry your tears as they drop
against my chest and wet my welcome skin and
stare at us both with their eyes: glistening and knowing
as I smell your day-stained hair and hold your heavy head
with mine, “we’re fine” we say.

And as the hours pass, unfairly by
we wallow in drink-fueled misery
bound by blinding ecstasy: we dance together
building an ice-bricked castle,
we write, and laugh and die together.

A million miles drawn with our eyes,
tied by letters, our words to navigate
us through our soul-binding exhaustion
brought on by those minutes that escape control:
we clutch to a truth that can never be found

and,
as I smell your day-stained hair and hold your heavy head
with mine, “we’re fine” we say.

Walking Tentatively In The Rain

Put the little girl to shame
lost, barefoot
pinafore in tatters.
This game of hide and seek
scares her to death
though she remains living
walking tentatively in the rain
crying for her childhood
mocking her from the horizon
a low slung sun gazing upon
the broken path laid down for her
as words resound
They tease, they bludgeon
removing a wonderful tale
from the leather bound book
waiting for her expectantly.
Her journey has been stolen.

Spinning Yarn

Senses abound, I am enchanted by
the gentle drop, drop, dropping of
Each soft and urgent fall caressing the
curves and folds of welcoming skin
Exhilerating, they sooth the trudging day
revealing the dark, open elysium.
Exasperating cold threatens any hope of
tranquility with
a stark and fierce
jolt.
I shudder.
And struggle to stay in line
alongside the prominent rush
Pressing ahead with its game
Enticing my wits and ends
and my time and passing.
I am lost to the unseeable wild
Interrogating possibilities that grow from a
trellis that has captured a
vine-like, snake-like beast.
Its screams deafen, writhing as you would
if captured and held
and put down.
Its eyes are full of a dangerous fire
that knows.
It knows,
Its gaze,
terror struck,
and it knows.
Though it is dying,
it is beautiful to me.
Still, no chance to linger
I cannot hope to stay,
no discovery for me.
He will not tell me what he knows, for
I have been unconsciously loosing
a yarn, spinning
the real that will haul
me back, eventually.

Knowing

I smell wet stone after a night of rain,
the sound of life invading my thoughts.
The colours of ageless land whom ensured my birth,
they dance together and mock me joyously,
yet they are pious. They whisper, the leaves,
stories I do not understand, laughing behind me
as I run terrified of their knowledge
I shall never know,
jealous and enslaved to their words,
as real and as recognisable to me as my reflection.
There is no searching, no discovery.
Halted the moment my lungs first took air
and gave me life,
I lost what they have known indefinitely.

Stone

Sunspots rest on your eyelids,
directing like sign posts
a way, the way, to a place
no satellite could ever quite reach.
The coarse stone sticks to your palm
and is the only reminder of mortality right now.
Cold and soaked in a millennia of different realities
you take it everywhere, as a reminder that
you exist on more planes than just this,
now.

Merciless.

Scathing is that look upon your brow: a trodden fortune
Hopes and bets a chip to win another, yet another go.
But I cannot wish for any bliss that comes from such
a bloody foul engagement.
This searing flesh I smell - a potent smell on you.
It lingers all too reverently, in sour air. Like pollen in late
spring that burns my cavities; rendering my sight useless
amidst a hazed glow of wretched tears, torn at by
these desiccated fingers.
No I cannot, and no you definitely will not,
or else I’ll cast a witch-like curse above your
stout and not-so-sorry head.

Just brief
Momentary, you could say.
The heat is inescapable and it suffocates
my already ravaged lips, charred by
the lack of something substantial.
What they need is to be coaxed back into
a state of living: unmarred, ready,
and open for suggestion.

This is not without consequences,
you may suggest. Perhaps. But,
temporarily, I am indifferent
and lack the ability to address my
own misgivings and instead require
the tending of these lips which have
proven so useful
In other ways.

Tossing words at turning worlds
that are slowly developing within me.
That is one exercise they have become quite adept at.
And yes, they do sometimes become dry and lifeless
when worlds eventually become unresponsive,
their stony histories washed away by shores of repetition.

Like any raped city they become forgotten
about until a new and apparently improved
upon is built in its place. Its vibrant,
jubilant qualities reaping false tales of excitement
with its arrival.
But that is not what this mouth requires right now.

Refraction

Two glass marbles fading
in the light on the sill.
Standing upright,
marching still:
hands held.
They are ready.
They are together now,
because they are dead.

Lover

Timid steps,
a gentle, painful
breath. Only one
is required,
to feel it properly.
It will only take one
for it ?for everything
to be complete.
You don’t know it
yet. Perhaps, you never
will. But it is everywhere
between each footstep
of me, and you.

One Last Look

There is no constant but the stare,
my own, I see. You move and
that movement nauseates my senses.
Except the stare. It is kinetic and
it knows before I or you know.

A Cello sounds
softly in your ear
and you whisper.
I know somewhere you
would like to look at.

Anticipate that heat we know so well and your
teeth are so welcome that I never tire of their smile
as though new and inexperienced,
they burn my flesh with furor, the sting consumes me.

Breaking my weakest point as you curse my name
and I revel like a mud-stained pig
I revel in it. Curse me again,
consume me. With your unkempt stare,
so angry and serene, a hazy mess of nothing
reflecting those summer days-ago.

Entice me with it again, those lies
that are not lies but truths you
say, those truths who dare not hide and
we urge ourselves with the promise of
one last look at them.

One last look that consumes you and I,
once more, again. Cosset those cursed names
we call out. - the only constant we
both understand. We know it so well,
so well.

We stop and we are finally still.
We stare.