Friday, 16 November 2012

Fog

I'd never seen

so many crows

as on the beach

today.

You never know

who'll be there

in the fog.

Our greetings

passed

on white air

and he raised

his collar

against

the cold.


 

Ruark

Ruark

his shadow disturbs

the light.

My morning walk waits

by Corinthian column square,

sharpened by autumn

sun chills.

His perch,

to stand in silhouette

on a glossed and gilded

guardian gate

and inhale the air.

Breeze of ghost song

through acanthus leaf castings

incidental

to grey birds'

choral discord.

They are no distraction

from Ruark.

He has me spellbound

in hypnotic gaze inky,

flight unfolding

gaining from a sea wind.

I am on his line

claw hook hanger.

Feather wing fanning

down cast then ecstatic,

chevron tail.

I give free will away

and I follow.

Glide drawing near

I'm ringed around

twice to be sure.

I swallow a draught

of cold morning

and he leads me

to the place of bird ways.

Far wing caught by shine

caught by my eye

to the nest

of dove young

and Ruark takes their lives

with dagger beak,

one by the last one

is mine.

All gone

to the broken feelings

of a sentimental soul.

And a cradle left empty

for the swag

of a stealing relation.

~

In my dream

I sleep.

Bird wings like hands,

shadow

growing to cover me

a feather or finger

strangling glove

my love

lands whispering

all the secrets held by the sky

stroke my throat.

Beat of wings

and my heart

closing together.

A black drop from his eye

falls on my lip

opens in a sigh of red.


 


 

Sunday, 4 November 2012

Bad Wired Female

So do I have to lick

the shit

someone sprayed up the subway wall

then spit out

a pretty French word

no one has used since Sagan?

'Is that actual

or metaphorical shit?' you ask

before I hide inside

my latest dream sequence

and hope for a drop

of short term solution

in my tea

so I'm adequately knocked out

to only attempt a suicide jump

from the edge of my bed.

That comfort cell

killing my voice

with fear, inhibitions

and financial excuses.

Bad wired female

anti-maternal

don't know political

career in weight loss,

my feet resting on a floor safe

until pay off day.

Faithless, I could stand

inside an inverted cross

or slogan

mass produced to fit

so keep it on

and march blank bannered

over a difficult dance floor

in circles,

to impress any new face

before panic speed accusations

of misunderstandings of

the flowery print

on a badge pinned to my skin.

A decoration

looking for a church

to sit down in.

What will they give me,

protein and

a question;

'do you despise me?'

No,

but do you desire me

to say

yes?