Tuesday 28 April 2015

Boyhood

It started with substandard films
And Hollywood explosions.
Manhattan burned, we faced our doom
From comets, drones or Martians.

Guy Fawkes demands an audience
When he gives himself to flames.
And violence is a boy’s best friend
In bloody playground games.

When British Bulldogs led the chase
That scrapes the skin from knees.
When infant fists stroked supple skin
It felt like a release.

When we learnt about the birds and bees
The teacher looked so serious.
It terrified my childhood friend
Who asked if boys have periods.

When my crush whined grass was in her bra
I scrunched up summer leaves.
When she started dating my best friend
Milk teeth made chapped lips bleed.

Perhaps the joy when tissues burn
Wasn't worth the wasted dust.
And perhaps the half price shoot-‘em-ups
Were never right for us.

Still, flowers once were shattered seeds
And fractured eggs makes birds.
And silence must be broken with
Artillery of words.

What harm was there is throwing stones
At Spot, the neighbour’s cat?
And insects feel no pain when scorched
With a magnifying glass.

So you will feel no hurt when I
Visit your lips too roughly.
And when I step across that line
You’ll damn well cross it with me.

Saturday 25 April 2015

And I Was Eyes Alone—

And I was eyes alone—
A curious departure.
‘Til thoughts reflect inflections
Of the voyeuristic laughter.

To disappear completely—
This aimless body’s aim.
The selfless self alone could help
To fill the world again.

Now drifting out the window
As the daylight starts to fade.
Do you spy it through the glass beyond
Your thin translucent shade?

To look and feel will fail
To know your memory-ridden face.
Now I see without direction
With a cool diffracted gaze.

Everything and nothing fill
The shrinking streets below;
And sleepers trapped within themselves
Still drag their worlds in tow.

Above, the formless fingers stretch
To grope towards the stars
Blind in their bliss to inward depths
Expelled in cosmic fires.

The light below is failing fast,
And with no light of its own
This voiceless voice is rising still.
Invisible. Alone.