day when you come
be nice to my father
treat him like a child of ill,
with a lot of black tea and
don't care hugs of sleep.
take him with me around
sniffing his cheek like his
mother who loved him
and he who loved me;
tell him he can see me
in love and happy
and that he will always be there
in a dark shadow that is in me,
or that when i cry it is a child
of one remembering old songs
he made for welcoming sleep
to a little baby girl.
measure my love
and show him how i rush to
meet him.

every day i know.

dead moths in the morning,
remind every night and clawing through, work
beside the sun to win over new light.
this is a new sleep with enchantments of entombed,
lie over, and let me prod and jab,
when wings die
they do not float.

time and her

Desire, my dream child,
Crossing legs over another
You have forgotten.
Faces you have smeared on
Red lipstick and
Walled it off strains of memory.

Desire, you crazy bitch,
rubbing off lust,
in a casual wave of hair
and moving silent still
even when you are not here.

Desire, this magic box
Trapping and killing
like a pigeon in love,
till eyes see only you,
in every shade of air.

let me be there.

If you could smell the air around,
And sense this ache
Of whispering love across
A thousand states,
And realising only through sounds
Happiness I alone can give,
I would make a crystal ball
And make us dance together
With the snowflake and the pretty white.

ATTACK OF THE JUNKIES

This, dear sir is an old story about an old land. It didn’t have beautiful trees, or therefore birds or music. It had a large ocean like the moon, appearing ahead without the trees, and in it many little seas, rivers, ponds and natural lakes. It glistened and sparkled like a branch of stars. There, beneath many layers of the beauty, stinking in earth of black soil and dark skies-where it rained like every day, lay the junkies. They lay hatching over the grass all day, with hands up in the air supporting their air of the hair of the heir, just pointing out the nitty-gritty of the whole absolute affair. There was a narrow, engraved passage through which it would be let out to the beauty, where alone they saw dreams in colours, and the smoke floated by below all the clouds across the world. The fish, the masters of the old land, saw it and loved it. It was scaly, and long, it slithered like god’s equal himself, and the dark net guised his evil. They were attracted to their new god, and drank it all in. like the most delicate poison, it lay slurping every bit and sucking at every little tit. They thus breathed for many years, many centuries, and aeons. They would grow up a day in the forever, and float in the haze and go high, high up with the shooting stars, and when their eyes opened they saw clear in the air, the rainbow. Kissing its many colours despite the mother ocean’s brilliant colours of the shades, forgetting in an instant’s most valuable time all the time of their real blue world’s life. It is in such pleasure steeping that the smoke gently ruptured their gills and they lay flattened in to lungs and dead. Dead like an old man’s little daughter up in between the bricks. That instant of time, the narrow passage cracked and the engraving caught on the fire and unfurled its many branches. The junkies breathed through the layers and saw the world. That was the word.

They nurtured the world, and made cement and choked it. It sodomised the dead fish and made them humans. They evolved faster, leaping through vertical concentric circles to emerge as apes in that magical sequence. That is how we were born. Junkies therefore, in the real mythology hidden between steps in destiny’s labyrinth, were adorned as gods, for mis-producing an entire race of seeking for such, such beauty.

Our ancestors banished real eden from the top of the spinning top, stopping it by a little finger by its neck. Anyway, anyhow and anywhere, they didn’t get Eden, but they got us our dying pale blue earth. Eden is the red glowing blood apple.

body.your

The bodies, which we hang on to. Like a child’s favourite clothes. Like, people we do not know. Like, ideas which you never meet. You will find all these things, shown to you in neat piles in a ruin, unmarked everywhere, you will lose your sight. You meet friends there, husbands and lovers, sons and grandfathers. They guard the ruin like a woman, which made him.

There, there, now don’t cry. Never use your body. It is which kills, slowly and deliberately. I sink in to more metaphors, and like blood flows along with every other thing in the wicked world. It is a beautiful dream. You sleep there for many stories of years, and getting older clouds look real. And you stay on.

The body mirrors the shadows, all the blood giving red its many shades of colours. The life presence of it all, she says. I am your muse, she says. The body draws conversations, and then makes violent sex upon the sandy beach of time’s little forehead. You will notice similarities, and common faces but it is all a convenient copulating picture, nothing else.

The body stretches in to bits which divide it, and starts deteriorating like a perfectly healthy leaf, quivering and shaking in her mad dance to death. It is all a very normal game. Delicately nocturnal then.

You grow old and die,down down you go. And the true shadows never meet.

Hang back. Hang back.

Watch a wound
Its coming to life, its dying birth
The blood rushing out,
After a trap with others
In a body of darkness,
Flowing hitting each other madly,
And to out stops,
Meets your eye-
Pausing a moment,
Hovering a smaller moment,
And trickle
Then.