a thousand years

All the things I’d say to you and all the things I’d ask

when far from home they find our bones once a thousand years have passed.

They’ll try to reconstruct you from the scattered parts they find;

they’ll take our bones and think they know our dimmed and distant lives.

All the things I’d say to you and all the things I’d ask

if our bones should lie together by some miracle of chance.

In nights lost to living memory we once mirrored this embrace;

I was maddened by your strangeness, crazed by flesh that’s long decayed.

All the things I’d say to you and all the things I’d ask

now that tourists come to look at us behind the thumb-smeared glass.

Curators say there is no way to know what we once were;

crowds are squinting out a language to decode our ancient hurt.

All the things I’d say to you and all the things I’d ask.

We can scrawl our motivations on the thumbprint-laden glass,

or keep them close and on our bones they’ll read what we confess.

They can circulate their theories in the academic press.

All the things I’d say to you and all the things I’d ask,

don’t you realise that your answers are all priceless artefacts?

With our jaw bones stained and broken and our tongues long turned to ash,

we can find a time for talking once a thousand years have passed.

all we are

The dog

(sunstained ginger)

tears cereal boxes with chortled breath

(a scrap extracted from skin-flap cheeks),

until the sunbeams are dressed in hard-cut edges.

We mirror its destructiveness,

and all our energies led to this:

a messy, drool-smeared carpet

in unlovely beige.

Slopingly, it comes to rest,

aloof and reasonless

in grey confetti flakes.

Pillow Talk

Heart is bristled bark

beside stark, unearthly chalk

of burnt-out embers.

Did you not enjoy the flames?

Dusky dance of campfire games.

Yes, summer scorched us

red raw, and stung by your touch

I shed skin like leaves.

Tongues congealed in sticky knots.

Skin aflame like sun-kissed rocks.

I remember this:

pillow talk shorn of substance

since that soft, spring dawn.

Oh, I would not be so sure.

We were. Dare you ask for more?

Delilah

'And when Delilah saw that he had told her all his heart, she sent and called for the lords of the Philistines, saying, Come up this once, for he hath shewed me all his heart. Then the lords of the Philistines came up unto her, and brought money in their hand'- Judges 16:18

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on,

and I know that you could never call it trust.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

we breathe it in; we even found it fun,

those daily games of glib betrayals and lust.

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on—

but I was young and lost and needed someone.

This heart is yours so take it if you must.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

and maybe we both needed them to come

to lay my broken body in the dust.

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on—

but who can wait to stake on sure foundations

when your sullen smile means more to me than trust.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

and I longed for it. My hands stung by the stone

that shakes and breaks and blisters at my touch.

You’re not the sort of girl I’d stake my life on.

We know, my love, we know the foregone outcome—

this heart is yours so take it if you must.

And here's a reading of this revised version, in my best approximation of a weepy Ben Wishaw voice:

Eurydice & Orpheus

I

Eurydice and Orpheus

are seated at the bar,

hands nested in each other’s palms,

and pupils knit like yarn.

Their lips are restless, wandering,

to soak the other’s cheek,

but disapproving glances force

them teasingly to leave.

She’d love to fuck him endlessly,

but it’s a weekday and it’s late.

They pull apart unwilling,

as his stiffy starts to chafe.

The morning after Orpheus

confides to his guitar.

He charts the agonies of love—

the trials of his poor heart.

He tries to frame Eurydice

in bland acoustic pop,

and clings to clichés carelessly.

He frets. Then sighs. Then stops.

The trouble is he cannot start

to praise her peerless mind,

when all his inspiration is

for wand’ring eyes to find;

and though the marriage of true minds

was always his ideal,

a bodiless and senseless love

is difficult to feel.

II

The next day brought a dinner date

and promised true romance.

They’d booked a table, called a cab—

not leaving things to chance.

The waiters hurried to their side.

The wine was flowing fast.

Their fellow diners grimaced at

Eurydice’s violent laugh.

Three courses later Orpheus

claims he must foot the bill.

They stumble out the restaurant

and stagger up the hill.

The bedroom beckons, Orpheus

swiftly fumbles at her clothes.

He grinds on her mechanically.

She tries to fake a moan.

When he comes she thinks, ‘thank God that’s done!’

and says she must go home.

It seems she’s drunker than she thought,

as she struggles with her clothes.

The morning after Orpheus

arises with a groan,

surprised to hear the troubled tones

of Jason on the phone.

A deafly silence clouds his ears.

His insides sink like lead.

‘I don’t know how to say this, mate,

Eurydice is dead.’

III

In the hours after Orpheus

is madly writing songs.

He tries to capture his despair,

served up three minutes long.

The neighbours shudder at the sound

of his caterwauling wail,

as sobbing for his sweetheart’s death,

he dreams of album sales.

The funeral comes and Orpheus

sings his love an epitaph.

The mourners grimly clench their teeth

and struggle not to laugh,

aside from someone at the back—

a woman in a veil.

She giggles softly to herself

at her boyfriend’s deafening wail.

Eurydice, see, faked her death—

life’s too short for bad sex.

He only loved her carnally,

but was a bloody bore in bed.

Besides, his songs were pretty shit—

he could hardly hit a note.

So she softly feels the purple marks

of Jason on her throat.

And Orpheus, that ghastly man,

was soon in love again.

Persephone craved his hellish shriek—

you can’t account for taste.

Ex-Two

The second kiss creaks to the hour.

The clock hands wrenched to parallel.

The click of minutes clasp my neck

to mark each second’s subtle swell.

One minute past. I feel the sweat

that lubricates your underarm.

Your body’s the efficient kind:

it cuts and slices up the time.

Though stationary I wish to stay,

you long for nine to turn twelve.

Our rhythm’s out. Our feeling’s faked.

We’re past our prime. It’s getting late.

We part as strangers on the hour.

Convergence creaks past parallel.

The minutes yellow on my neck,

as rotting moments sometimes dwell.

The hours struck and left us bruised,

by dawn we barely knew ourselves,

as cold hands cut above each other

to mark each second’s subtle swell.

Webster

And when I kissed your painted lips

the climax was ungodly.

Devotion dredged my cold canals.

The poison pitched me strongly

down to the floor, where writhing I

felt bone beneath the skin

and tousled hair. Caught unawares

I felt the pain begin.

My brain’s on fire. Body’s numb.

My veins stretch to be free

in ridges, sharp and angry still,

on a thin, unsettled leaf

of a poison Bible. Damage done,

I go I know not whither.

This kiss of death steals all my breath

and sends it to my killer.

Where murderers kill murderers;

where death is set in wax;

where hairs dig deep beneath the skin,

we pick conceits to set our sin.

To a bouy

Displayed in ThornFest: Turning Tides.

I’ve been thinking I wanted to kiss you,

old friend,

and your laugh is the sand in my shoes.

It’s been too long for me to still miss you,

they said,

and spend salt on the paths that we choose.

Yet I still wish that I had been braver

back then,

when we really had nothing to lose,

except some subtle pride

and the call of the tide

was eternally prying us loose,

when I was like the lapping wave

of a trembling, two-tone tide

caught inbetween

the advance and retreat

with the moonlight on my side,

but you were not the cavern’s mouth

and I could not come inside.

Composed and pristine,

you were calm and complete

and repelled me every time.

And it might be then or never

now I’m rolling out to sea;

and we both might wait forever

until we can finally be;

but I’m giving my all

to a foreign shore

where you can never follow;

and they say it is easy

like giving in

to the cold dream of tomorrow.

Breakers will break us

and old bouys will save us

now that you are a Lenten dream;

and the children will make us

for the cold sea to take us

as we wait for the tide to come in.

If You Want Me

For my Valentine

Swell then, heart,

You rattling thimble!

Balloons may burst

Before they pass the clouds.

If feet shake and flesh prickles

With every step

That could be the last,

Then why should we walk?

If every syllable will float

Unprotected in the air

That waxes with our words,

Then why should we talk?

Happiness haunts with subtle dread.

You know, if you want me you should have just said.

Palm Sunday

Sunday.

The trees swallowed me up

And cogitated me softly,

With the leaves falling down in a vertical march,

Like the weeping of trees, a procession of palms.

They were not gold

But pale and brown,

Though far away

They shone like stones.

So as you were sinless you cast them at me

To bloody my body with loss of belief.

Now nothing remains of the lies that I weaved,

But I don't want to see.

So I shed my skin with muffled cracks

A constant, gentle breaking

And shift this flaking, wasting corpse

In one painful act of waking.

Now turn your eyes away from me

For I don't want to see.

And take your tongue and bury it

My covered ears still bleed.

And take this light away from me

For I don't want to see.

For I don't want to see.

Armistice

‘Tis better to have loved and lost/ Than never to have loved at all’ 

Alfred Lord Tennyson

5am and I can feel

Your weight around my neck;

And every step was torture,

Thoughts a bullet to the head;

Hurt signposted for miles around,

I loathed the dusty track;

And tears squirmed out of every pore,

I dreamt of turning back;

We were drowning in our feelings

And we’d lost where we began;

You said, ‘We’ll go our separate ways’.

It felt like a release;

But when it came to letting go

I only felt defeat;

A precious flower, yet to bloom,

Was wilting in the heat;

The weed of resignation

Would surely prove too much.

If you’d consent to strangle me

I’d shiver at your touch.

Your fingers laced around my neck

Could only make me blush.

Better far to love our hurt

Than hurt for want of you.

And we will hurt each other

Yet we need each other too.

I’m gentlest when I’m with you

But our minds are black and blue.

I will not risk a rupture

Though an end may find us soon.

So I will end this armistice

Though we bare our hearts to wreck.

5am and I can feel

Your weight around my neck.

Coffee

‘Maybe you should just drink a lot less coffee

And never ever watch the Ten O’Clock News’ –Regina Spektor

Leaning like italics;

Heading God knows where.

A fizzling core demanding more

And crumpling with its care.

A sizzling shiver in my hands

And thighs like fireworks.

These limbs are spitting sparklers

So you best be wearing gloves.

Now I'm composed of dominoes;

Disaster’s in my lines.

My structural integrity

Could snap at any time.

And with one push I’d feel the rush

Of swift impending doom.

Just one more breath and little death,

Emerging something new.

Another sip and I am filled

With all that I could be;

Like love without the nasty bits.

All possibilities

Drift down like sparks in autumn parks

When the rocket’s had its day.

It kills me with its climax

As the caffeine melts away.

Nicknames

And one word could

Propel me back

Across the years

To foreign lands.

But transitory

Boomerang

I trust myself

To swish right back.

Old embers of

An unreal day

When you would lead

Me up the drive.

The foaming texts

Were fit to burst

A wave about

To break on sand.

But sand will prompt

An hour glass

To mourn the passing

Of old names

We used to spell

In capitals

When we still clung

To unreal gods.

For months I could

Not write your name

Except in ink

Poisoned with hate.

Without realising

What I’d done

I’d forced myself

To love the loss

Of you. You know

My one regret

Was that I could

Not gulp back pride.

Instead I blamed

A demon who

Would wear your name

Pervert your grace.

I don’t deserve

This epithet

I lost it when

I banished you

Like mad King Lear.

You were all that

Turned humble prose

To poetry.

My life will take

A different course

Away from all

We talked about.

The promised end

Will never come

Without you I

Can’t write the lines.

The Wolfman

First- he realised his nails needed cutting:

Caressing her body was leavings scars.

Perhaps he remembered being bitten

By friends who’d just see the moon not the stars.

A certain hairiness about the hands

That no longer touched for comfort lightly.

His body’s fulfilling new demands

Until to others he’s quite unsightly.

Advancing jaw can’t be held by smooth lips

(Smooth talking’s useless now canines are out).

His beautiful vowels are change to howls

And consonants catch in his blood-slaked throat.

He tears the limbs of an innocent lamb

Before he ate meat medium rare; left tips.

Corners a girl, tipsy and lost and

Blood not saliva is bathing his lips.

Tomorrow’s a new day- see him alone

Hiding his dignity; genitals sore.

Dazed and confused; is it this time he’ll see

Month after month he has been here before?