The Madness Rations

With all the delightfully tempting deliberation

Of the sensuous midnight dance, they

Pour their whiskey’d coffee shadows

Into the urban canyon streets.

Honest-to-God light,

As though, silently screaming,

Seeking to escape upwards.

Leaves from ground level,

Now are the panther-hours,

The time of warm-chocolate promises,

Bitter honeys with secret pillows;

The secret language of  darkened doors:

The madness-rations we take

In order to plead sanity.

 

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Time …

Thunder quietly stirs in

The dark music distances

At the end of the silver day tracks:

The one armed smith and

The eight-legged stormbringer.

A different crew walks the morning desert

Between directions, must be

Getting closer to the time

To visit the city I fear,

To use the words we never said.

Iron Frustration.

 

Been away. Not travelling; just absent. Been away. Again. But this time my feet stayed in the same place. My muse went away. Again. Was it my fault? Of course … but I guess she needs space too, to visit her own sources of inspiration. Away.

While I dallied, uselessly, and useless, between weak guitar runs and wet days that leaked bad energies. Nothing came. Nothing came out right. Again.

Did it ever?

Been surrounded by books, often my favourite company. New stories, plots, characters, facts, you’re a reader you know what I’m saying … but everything was going in,

in,

in,

in:

no sparks, no fires being set off, no leaps of disjointed thingummywhatsit coming together.

No bl”%*y writing!

Couldn’t see the thoughts for the iron?

The phases of the moon … which was honey when it should have been bone?

Bad karma, not enough sleep, not enough you know what else, too much this, too many that … and introspection never pays the going rate.

I smile to think it, but patience is over-rated, just sometimes has to be enough.

Image:imperomedia.com

 

Harrier

 

Delightful dry-wind friend,

White-winged day ghost –

Feathers cut from polished core of

Purest cumulus, sewn onto galleon jib sheets:

Spirit of summer-new.

Swimming powerfully through

Thick purple and lemon evening

Moor-top strata skies while,

Way below and way behind,

Earth and Heaven shiver with ecstasy.

 

Storytelling Bones

Here’s me here,

So stupidly relaxed:

Like one of Einstein’s complacent codfish;

Thinking myself at rest –

Copying the wisdom of fools and

The foolishness of the wise:

Enjoying pretty shells,

Seeking smooth stones

Storytelling bones

On the fringes of

Excitement’s oceans.

Sure that the starting line whizzed past me,

That the world is rushing past

So pell-mell fast.

 

That

the Loneliest of Ghosts

 

 

Here, feel the desperate-sad,

Ready-to-expire character

Surrounding the deserted,

Edge of mid-town buildings;

The ones avoided by rats

And shunned by even

The loneliest of ghosts.

Here, glimpse the eyeless,

Broken-pained windows

That briefly grasp at  skypieces

But fail to hold their interest.

Holes where slates once held

A certain vertigo-sway,

Injured-bone joists,

White tumbled bricks,

Floor without full boards,

Webs without cobs …

Stairs without risers.

There’s nothing here –

Neither arch nor fair, and

I cannot say there ever was,

Being stranger here myself,

With doors to lock,

Promises to keep

And ways to make.

Gypsy

Gypsy sits the

Spaces between the winds;

Possessing the means

But, for the moment,

Getting no message.

Surrounded by the busy fools

Whose lives are ruled by iron,

That join the same redundant lines,

Piling day onto day,

Turning golden time

Into heavy lead.

Gypsy sits the winds

Between the spaces.