Sunday 16 December 2012

He She (Like-God-I-Hate)




He She


She's happy –
Laughing.

He's watching –
Quiet.

Her smiling eyes squint.
Deep gusts of air shoot in, then out
As her nostrils flare and close.

His brows converge
Cramming skin above the ridge of his nose.
He strokes his chin in disbelief.

Her phone must have
A good sense of humour.
Her left hand grips tightly
and her manly fingers curl over its rectangular edges.

His phone is in his
Pocket. Waiting to ring (as a phone should).
His hands sit on his lap
And his fingers claw into his thighs.

She's sitting alone
At a round table in a cafe.
Rain drops stampede against high-tech glass
As clouds drown the sun
And twilight spills over the sky's edges.

He's sitting alone
At a round table (same cafe she's in).
Angry thoughts rain against her high-tech appendages.
'I should glass him,' he thinks
Of drowning her in her own blood.

Tuesday 4 December 2012

Anticipation





Anticipation


Like the sea
Each moment holds onto
A molecule
Of the next without
Breaking
Never becoming
One
Asymmetrical thing moving with symmetry

A wave of inspiration rising –
Fizzling with a memory or hope
It carries you alive (though not itself living)
Towards a shore full of things
You can touch or hold – then it
Breaks
Under gravity's mighty pull below
And you're submerged again
Your lungs are clenching for air
Until next time
You anticipate the possibility of being alive

Wednesday 17 October 2012

Her Last Friend


Her Last Friend

The sky was brimming with rich margerine light
And the pigeon walked slowly
Nodding yes to everything in its way.
It must have landed clandestinely
Because it was almost at my feet before I saw it
(Or maybe I was too clandestine for it to notice me).
Its feathers
Were fine, dark, grey filaments of rain clouds
Its feet
Were newborn earthworms with toes, nails and scales.
It was not an unusual pigeon
But it seemed so to me.


This pigeon didn't seem to know why it was here –
The wind came and it nodded yes
The dirt rose and it nodded yes
The sun burned and
Stoically, it nodded yes.
Then it pecked at the earth
And sand sprayed like water
But the ground did not yield.
It wanted a worm or some other invertebrate
Before the rain came to drive it away
And I should say that it deserved to eat
Just for being so positive.
So it pecked again
And the sand sprayed
But the ground did not yield.
It paused (as if thinking)
Tilted its head
Then pecked again.
The sand sprayed
But the ground did not yield
So it jumped and flew away.
And so did I.

Sunday 16 September 2012

Saudade




Saudade

Few things are as arresting
As clouds and the shapes they make.

Isn't it surreal how they hang
In a lazy listless lull –
Moving still
Like ponds
Moulding fancies
Like daydreams.

Visceral ephemera that almost
Look like things you wish were real –
A familiar smile
Disguised as floating lather
Or pearly impressions
Of her afro hair.

Then you reach to touch the sky and realise
That the clouds are never really there.

Monday 13 August 2012

The Colourful Thing


The Colourful Thing

The day is filtering by unnoticed, just like days tend to. Face by face, smile by smile, nod by nod – each moment tiptoes by. The sun (tired of smiling) is slowly changing faces with the moon (tired of hiding). I'm draining away (like light does with the hours) when I see the most colourful thing I have ever seen. It is a supernova collage – a white phosphorous explosion with a rainbow stain. It forces the spectrum of visible light a little wider than possible and paints pictures the shade of fantasy. It breathes (swelling to inhale, shrinking to exhale) a dangerously delightful drug that, for a moment, forces euphoria. I sleep-sigh like I've found the answer to it all and drool-smile like I don't care I'm an addict. It feels great. I mean, it's pretty OK. It is a burning obsession – like a nucleus of daylight eating, from the centre outwards, through thin sheets of night. Soon night is consumed and all there is left is an unmysterious morning. I guess this is it. Pretty fun. It's still the best thing I've ever seen. I wonder what comes next? Is there something more interesting than the most beautiful thing I have ever seen? What is that most beautiful thing again? Why did I stop here? Oh shit, it's dark! And everyone’s gone… left me behind. I've been standing here wasting my life away… Why? I think I saw something, but I can't for the light of me remember what.

Sunday 22 July 2012

Making Plans


Making Plans

The weatherman forecasted rain
But I didn't listen.
Forecasts 
Are often wrong anyway 
(Rain clouds are so angry
They never listen to anyone).

I'm strolling
To a sunny rendezvous
When I see them
Rushing slowly towards me 
Like a spillage towards an edge;
People usually catch them on umbrellas
But today
I didn't prepare for rain.

Soon the sky gets melodramatic
Shouting, flashing and crying 
(Most likely at the ground)
And I'm caught in the middle.
 
Then I stop caring
And let the spillage flow over
(Like the blue of the sky
Did with the grey).

It surprises me to learn
That heavy rain can be refreshing too
Once it has passed.

Sunday 24 June 2012

Pretty Girls Have It The Hardest


Pretty Girls Have It The Hardest

Pretty girls must find it pretty tough –
You know
Being blind, deaf and dumb.

Everywhere they look
They see nothing.
Except smiles –
Brilliantly blinding
Devilishly dark
Like startling stars
Floating
Side by side
(A     million     miles     of
Inky evening skies between each) –
An optical illusion.

Every time they listen
They hear nothing.
Except flattery –
Sensuously streaming
Deafeningly drowning
Like watery waves
Crashing
One after another
(Sweetly
Submerging
Terrestrial truths below sea level) –
Something fishy.

Everything they say
Means nothing.
Except sex –
Passion pure
Loveless lust
Like thirsty ticks
Biting
Host after host
(Simple slaves to nature
Always at your side) –
Friends with needs.

Who can tell
Lovers from liars
Being blind, deaf and dumb?

Tuesday 29 May 2012

How To Never Die



How To Never Die

The sunflower did not move
except skyward.
Its sultry summer petals
opened and spread
Like glowing fingers
Of radiant sulphur –
Eager to caress
Long lustrous strands
Of carefree sunshine.

In truth
It did not reflect sunlight
It seemed, instead
To give the sun light.

For a thousand years
I, alone, saw this sunflower
Bloom
And never wither.

Wednesday 23 May 2012

A Lot Like Love


A Lot Like Love

I would call her name
If I knew what it was.

The train carriage rumbles rowdy
Shrieking and shuddering
Steel grazing and grating –
A mechanical marinade of metallic sounds
All fading away
Because something else is rumbling louder.

‘The next stop is… change here for…’
But I can’t get off till she does.

She jumped on when I did,
Just before the doors shut.
I didn’t notice her (at first)
But when she sat, her gaze ran across mine –
She had special effects in her 
Golden brown eyes
Like a pair of simmering sunsets
Frozen in ice.

‘The next stop is… change here for...’
The train says, in a machine voice.
Home was five stops ago
Why would I get off now?

I should say something
But I can’t –
Paralysed with contentment
And a fire in my belly
To match the fire in her eyes.

The next stop is… change here for…’
She uncrosses her legs
Stuffs her phone in her purse
And turns, unaware, towards the doors.
When they open, she gets up
And walks off the train.

In a daze, I wonder
How do I get back home from here?

Sunday 13 May 2012

Depression




Depression

Every-day
Pressure on the mind
Weighs
Like pressure on the body.
Wave after wave
Like wave after wave of Sea
Beating
On withering shores of sand.

Crippled 
By gravity
Earth will not move.
Every-day drowning 
Choking struggle
Bleeding light
Withering sand
Hemorrhage of green
And death of colour.

She does not scream
She does not cry
She turns, dancing on an axis
She burns solar (at the plexus).
She didn’t scream
She didn’t cry – who knew
She was bleeding light?

Heavy on the mind
As heavy on the body
Every-day a burden
Every-day Sea rages
With wave after wave
Beating 
On the back
Breaking 
With force –
The mighty hanging
Of wave after wave
Above the shore
Comes crashing
Breaking 
With force…

‘Snap out of it!
No time for pretty words
When you are bleeding light.’

Sunday 1 April 2012

Thank You Mother




Thank You Mother

Thank you Mother
For teaching me to be a gentleman.
It hasn't gotten me very far
But I hear it's the way to be.

And when you said
'Poem's don't always have to rhyme'
I should have known you meant
Life doesn't always rhyme too.

You know Mother,
You really shouldn't have told me
That the sky is the limit –
It ended badly when I tried to fly.

And when you said
'Mothers have endless love for sons'
I should have known you meant
Mothers have endless love for their sons.
That explains why my best friend's mother
Didn't return my advances –
See Mother, for a while there
I thought it wouldn't work out between us.

It's a strange world
And I know you must have found it
Strange too.
I try to make sense of it
But if my Mother couldn't
How could I?

Sometimes I'm not sure
If I want to be who I am or
If I am who I want to be
So I try to be both
And find myself being neither –
Surely
There is 'a' way to be...

Still I thank you for your help Mother –
I know you meant well
And I'm sure when I teach my son
I'll mean well too.

Sunday 19 February 2012

The Woman Under The Bridge

The Woman Under The Bridge

On my way to school
I always used to see
This woman –
With torn and dirty clothes
With six or seven children
Dying to suckle
At her ailing breasts
And though she looked poor
Her face was beautiful.

At the roundabout
Under the bridge that flies
Over the cars underneath –
Our cars underneath
Circling her
Like the sharks in cartoons.
I saw her and now cannot forget
The woman under the bridge.

I Always Look Where I Should (Synesthesia)

I Always Look Where I Should

It was dark, so I couldn’t see much –
But I heard a bird sing a song
Like none I had heard before.

He sang, as if calling
Like the rushing wind
Ripe with a summery citric scent
Running carefree fingers through
My thoughts
Trembling in awe like blades of green green grass.

He sang like sunlight strands
Caught in the glint
Of squinting eyes – afraid that
They might not hide love well enough
From a friend they fear is a lover.
Eyes trying to say
‘It’s just a summer day, and we’re just friends.’

He sang like the taste of buzzing bees
Sweet as brimming hives heaving with honey.

As if calling... still he sang.
So I listened (but did not go)
As his song crept up
My skin (rising with anticipation)
And into my thoughts.

I heard joy dancing to his music –
Disguised as youthful half-smiles
And infantile cackle
And rapid-rushing hearts with something to beat for –
Thumping percussively
To the marooned melody of a nagging night-bird.

His breath stuttered and his music grew hoarse –
Still he sang, as if begging.
But it was dark
And I was not expecting to hear a song so sweet
At night.
If he sang by day
I would have gone looking.

Suddenly
His force failed
And his song seized –
I opened my eyes
And it was dark again.

In the morning, I tried to find him
But could not hear his song.
Perhaps it was drowned in the mechanical monotone
Of high technology
And busy people...
There were so many birds
How could I tell
Which song was his?