Provenance

How do you not shake, with such worlds inside of you.
Looking into the orbs of your soul, I see galaxies forming.
My heart swims across those burnt hazel pools.
Breathing hydrogen and life, watching comets disappearing.
Love mirrors and love remains.
It flows inside our veins.
Showing up the places that are broken.
Unconditionally we cloak each other.
Covering the scars and bruises of memory.
Cloaked in rose kissed armour.
Light as angel sighs.
Defiant and enduring, like a kiss upon waking.
For love cannot be undone.
Each part of this love is a moment.
Strung together like rosary beads.
Blessed and cherished, but never betrayed.
Clutched close when the darkness threatens.
The light of our love gleams through those cracks.
Cracks which show where we pulled our pieces together.
And I will kiss each wound with a prayer.
Devouring a genesis,  as our skin meets.
Collapsing in time.

A Halleluiah in the violence

The anger maketh the man.
Bleeding out the words that my head cannot contain.
Pearls for the poets.
Flowers for the loveless.
Laughter for the cynical.
They laugh with me now, the chorus of hyenas.
Eager to strip the soul in such violence.
And as the lion dies inside.
Little birds peck the eyes.
Dropping iron feathers to strip the goodness.
Tearing the history apart.
Like absence encased in an ice cube.
Swilling in the drink you hand me.
They watch every move I make.
Taking me and making me something which I’m not.
A spilt blood lamb.
A blood boiled Allah, fickle and fused.
Living long enough to become your villain.
Broken in bones and shaking to nothing.
Lying in your desert of love.
To be eaten by the angels that circle.
As my ghost escapes through my chest.
Out through your hoops.
Ending in a sigh.

Skeletons in the sky


SKELETONS IN THE SKY

I hear the angels whispering to me, quietly in my sleep.
Loudly when I wake.
Cracking my skull like an egg.
Dipping their fingers inside.
This life.
Sun shined yellowed and fresh.
Stretched out and taut like a lamb on the rack.
Hurried time, and love spent.
Empty like a tramp’s bottle.
You gave me the promises you couldn’t keep.
Tucked under my mattress for the day it rained.
Waiting for the monsoon.
It poured, and I was washed away.
Washed out to sea like sardines and ship wrecks.
So I wait now.
For that dark sky to open up and swallow me again.
Suck the light from my bones and spirit me away.
Like skeletons in the sky.
Solar pirates for the soul.
Yet gone before it happens, before the decay.
Drifting in the cosmic sleep.
One you can’t undo.
Until I wake to discover, you loved me too.

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Lap of the gods

His brow, wet from the rain, cast skyward.
A heart yearning for explanation and soothing.
His climb monumental, each step a weight of a world.
The spirits plucked his heartstrings like a lyre.
Coursing a music in his soul.
The mountains surrounded him, closed in like monster teeth.
A wife held close still.
Tiny grey fragments on his skin.
Parted only by an urn and disbelief.
Soldiering on, he watched Apollo bury the light for another day.
Darkening his journey and settling into his bones.
Light air and fables coiled around him as he reached the summit.
The fates had been wrong, he was to die on the ascent.
Strangled in the thin air and half-hearted inclination.
Here’s mud in their eyes he thought as he looked beyond the clouds.
A flickering light, and eye to mystery.
Shimmering into view like many untold stories spat from a fire.
The great mount, the seat of all and divine rose into view.
His heart melted into honey as the sight expanded in his eyes.
Before it turned to stone, unable to stand the wonders before him.
Knowing the climb had just been steps towards the sacred.
Tiptoes on the precipice at the edge of the world.

The Power

The power lives in you.

He heard it again, that voice. What was it, the third time? Not menacing, or threatening, more like the gentle voice of a child; a fine mist leaking out of a corner.

He’d come into the kitchen to wash his cup out, the tea long since drained, the dark dregs like the mistakes of his life had dried in the depths. His kitchen overlooked his back garden, the huge oak tree which cast a shadow over half the house blanketed the room now. Half in, half out of light.

Two o’clock in the afternoon, whispers in the air.

He hadn’t felt alarmed hearing the words, indeed they were comforting in they casuistic way. The voice itself was ethereal, calm and soothing, like milk running down his soul. He’d left the cup in the sink and looked on out the windows, the words fluttering in his mind like the leaves outside fluttering in the breeze. The season was on the change, and he could picture now the lawn covered in frost while the trees disappeared into themselves with their winter reclusiveness.

The year, where had it gone? Disappeared into nothing while he’d roamed the house like a Victorian ghost; forlorn and melancholic. But then, what did they expect, he’d just been trying to keep It together. If the good lord wanted miracles, then it was indeed one that he was still even alive. Those dark days of spring when the end seemed so apparent. On his fingertips like the edge of tomorrow. He was still finding his way on this new terrain, still stuffing the darkness back into the holes that bled it out in copious amounts.

The power lives in you.

That voice, those words. He knew what it meant of course; he’d felt that divine pull for the past few weeks. His own lungs coughing up golden dust when he woke. Hard to breathe, hard to be here in this world the way he was. It was uncomfortable, he just knew he had to change. These voices, these little nudges were to make him see, to move him along. Sometimes we are so blind to what is before our eyes. It took him some time, but slowly he began to see.

Washing his cup, leaving it on the draining board to dry, he went back into his study. He called it a study, though it was really just the spare room with all manner of things piled high. He didn’t study anything, aside the figures and words that flashed across his screen; the requirement of modern life. He’d longed to give it all up of course, but his dreams had slowly died over the years and now necessity proved too strong a spell.

He sat down at his new desk, the wood still smelling of the sick like scent of the cardboard box it arrived in and pulled toward him a notebook. Past the pages of word commitments, the left to do lists and random spirals, coming to land on a blank page towards the back. Words had never really come easy to him, the right one always on the tip of his brain, peeking out like a child playing hide and seek. But he commanded himself, spurred on by the gentle voice that now echoed in his mind. He made a list of things he needed to change, things in his life and things about himself he could no longer tolerate.

His mind flashed, like skimming through tv channels, and it came upon a documentary he’d watched once. The image was fuzzy and dated; the haze of anything from our past which we give a comforting glow. Drugs, the documentary was about drug abuse and interventions by family members. He felt their pain in a flash, registering barely but a blip as he skipped through their plight. The counsellor, the authority in the room. What was she saying?

“People will only change when they are so far gone, that the thought of staying the same disgusts them. If Richard feels revulsion when he uses, that’s when he will decide to quit. You can’t make him, you never will. All this is just dressing to his world, your pain inconsequential. Only he can change, and he only will when it is worse not to.”

He remembered it, his mind the magician remembering every word. He barely remembered conversations he’d had last week, but here it was, locked in the annuals of his mind.

We have the power.

It came in a flash, like lightning this time. Cracking his skull and finding his soul. Louder too, and different. ‘WE’, joined together. Not alone. We have the power. He noticed his hands were shaking, the pencil he was using vibrating slightly. His mind, the magician and time traveller taking him away in a second to his school days, shaking pencils quickly to watch them blur.

Back in his study, the list before him. The words in his mind.

He looked at the list and saw his work ahead. Elements of change, poisoned elements of freedom. Within the poison lies the cure. These things were not terrible, many born from laziness.  But they did disconnect him, and they kept him from manifesting anything but what he had around him now. Is this the life you wanted?

He ripped the page out of the notebook, little curls of paper scattering on the desk like hair in a barbers. Knocking his chair back as he went, he sped quickly into his front room where the photos were. Shiny lined frames containing his life, friends and family smiling back at him. He stopped and looked at those faces, of the ones he loved. Some gone, some remaining. He ached for one in particular, their smile overshone by the light that beamed from their eyes. Drawing him. He’d asked of course, he’d asked for help from them, and God. Asking for assistance and the chance of change.

You are your only saviour.

The voice came swift and curt, this time more of an admonishment. It was joined by a chorus of others, repeating it so it echoed into nothing.

He’d been here before, cursing them, cursing God for letting him down. Throwing his fists and tears up towards heaven. Heaven which never seemed to answer him.  God, who never seemed to give a damn. But now, these voices, these calls to arms in a way, pushing him onwards; empowering him.

He stood there, before the photos; the light shining off the silver frames and catching his eyes. He forgave and apologised. He took onboard all the pain and blame that he’d dispatched, the responsibility felt delicious and bitter in his mind. But he could not blame them, not anymore. His list showed him where he’d gone wrong, absolving himself over the years of the fuckups that he was the master of. His choices, his movements. His words said to them and others over the years.

It took him some time, and the voices left him to do it quietly as they swirled around protectively. They had been with him all along of course. Watched him along the road of good intentions, wincing when he fell. He’d never known the danger they kept from him, times when he could’ve been forever lost. But it took something within for them to now speak. Something had broken inside of him; something had burnt away all he had framed in his life. And in his ruins, they found the crack for the light to burst through.

Leaving his front room his eyes wet and weary, he walked back into his kitchen, passing the cup; now clean and dry. He slipped out the back door, putting on the wellington boots which lived just inside. They were tight yet reassuring, offering the freedom to clomp around any surface or pitfall. Spiriting himself down the path, over the little bridge where he’d begun his Japanese inspired retreat some time ago; he came to rest in the small pagoda. He remembered putting this up himself, it had taking him hours. It was second hand of course; the new ones were much too expensive and he could see the damage around the base now from the weathering and years of endurance.

Power of prayer.

These words rested in his mind like little clouds settling on a mountain. He closed his eyes and washed them through him. Prayer, power. His faith was not what many would consider appropriate to them, but he knew the strength of his spiritual side. It had saved his life, many times. The power of prayer was to keep a conversation with God. Talking, always talking. But he’d demanded a lot in his life. Cursing, bargaining and threating the creator. The problem with prayer is that it was always one way. A conversation with one voice.

Meditate, and hear the answers.

The voice, so close now. Like a kind hand on his shoulder.

He remained there for some time, his mind peaceful and his words coming quickly. He prayed more, asking and forgiving. Conversing with God until the words were used up. He then sat still, quiet like a bonsai tree and meditated, listening to what God now had to say in reply.

Until my last breath

You hear me breathe.
But you cannot see.
Masked by the skin that makes me.
Inside, a love blooms and flowers.
Rising with the light I see in your eyes.
You are the pull of this tide.
Circling me with your lunar call.
My heart, the lonely hunter.
Howling and yearning for a touch.
For a kiss.
For a word that escapes in embraces.
A love so precious that makes the angels cry.
How you slip inside my mind like truth and temptation.
And you know the worth.
The war that was fought to earn such love.
The battlefield strewn with such bloody parts of this heart.
Now drying in the southern sun.
I want you to keep me forever.
Placed into the pocket of your soul.
Safe and secret.
Dripping with dewdrops of infinity.
Born out of our early morning birth.
I want you to hold tight, squeeze all the love from me.
Hold on to me, until there’s nothing left.

Subconsciously motivated to euphoria

Tell me more about this place where the flowers grow.
Darkness, you say, is but a dream spun in fractured states.
That has little place there.
These flowers, they sparkle like crystals under sunlit ponds.
Inviting us to dive for mislabeled treasure.
There was but a crack on my mind.
Nothing really, but would it matter?
If that fracture, grew worse and worse.
Not there you say, that place it heals.
Swaddling all in divine clouds of relief.
Keeping the broken pieces of the shell in place.
And the mind where it belongs.
What use of the heart then?
The heart it seems is praised.
Raised up high like a crown.
The land vibrates under soft understanding.
While love sews tapestries of tales, and memories together.
They are there too, you know they are waiting.
How could an angel not sit at the throne.
Heaven?
No, not yet. The safer place inside your soul.
Where you barely tred.
I don’t want to stain it all with coatings of yesterday.
These things will be washed away, only lessons remain.
Who can go?
All are welcome.
When can I leave?
You’ve already left.

The Death of the heart

Through hollowed tears that paint the walls.
Cries a thought, uttered more in lament than desperation.
The lights fading.
A love abating.
The prayer for a heart on the edge of nothing.
What demons and ghosts stole it away.
Which angels plucked it from the earth.
Has god really written the last passage in its tale.
Or has the other heart deserved a second chance?
These questions lick at the mind of fate.
While others close their eyes to possibilities.
They lost the beat, the rhythm of love.
Those roots that went deep, tangled and clogged with mud.
Twisted with happenstance and rode the whispered jokes of time.
All beneath the silent wings, and bells ringing out a new era.
While eucalyptus air fills the lungs.
And we cough up the oil of yesterday.
For heaven can wait, while paradise before us blooms.

Spirited

You see?
All of this remains.
Before. Behind. Way after.
The crucible cracks and splutters in its creation.
Offering golden wings in which to ascend.
Where will those heavy wings take us.
On that lunar breeze which blows from the lips of god.
A substituted living now folds into the ocean.
This blessing of cotton wraps around my eyes.
Yet still I see.
If I wait for you, what dies in my veins?
If I go now, will you remain?
The hesitation catches me like asthma.
Your love pollutes my body like oxygen.
Fixing me to rise only when your lungs heave.
At times we are at a distance.
Calling half a world away.
Yet still I remain, waiting for you to see.
Waiting and believing.
That love in your eyes.

Everything (सर्वेषां स्वस्तिर्भवतु ।)

When the world wind weeps around you.
May the universe dry your eyes.
And happiness make you smile once more.
Sarvesham Svastir Bhavatu.
I cannot keep you safe from the conflict.
Or the wars within you.
But I offer you peace, from that of which I’ve known.
Sarveśām Shāntir Bhavatu.
You are taken from the mountain,.
You come in pieces.
And I too, but together we are more than less.
Sarveśām Pūrnam Bhavatu.
And if you fall, I will not catch you.
But I will watch as you rise again.
And applaud your strength, with an outstretched heart.
Sarveśām Maṇgalam Bhavatu.
We are but pieces.
Love is the is the whole.
Versions of the same form, spun from the same gold.

An inner choir sings

You do not find it in the brush strokes of the saintly.
Or willowing wisps of utterances in cold hallowed halls.
Do not look for god in pages of prejudice.
Or underneath the rocky souls of the holy.
Light a candle and feel me.
Peel back the bits of Christ to find me.
Swimming in the shallow cells of you.
Awash, in the DNA of God.

Something to stay awake for – Turn of the tide

Listen to this episode.


[SPASH!]

It had started out as such a beautiful day. The tangerine sun above glistened down unknowingly on the little boat that bobbed on the waves like a cork. The vast expanse of ocean to one side of him shimmered into the distance, being pulled into a far-off string that he knew led to anywhere. The steep cliffs on his other side gleamed, the enamel of the sea that burst forth and up high like teeth of a sleeping beast. The occasional rocks would tumble down into the unusually calm waters beneath, kicked over the edge by the people, families and dog walkers he saw now wandering along the cliff edges. He watched as they called out to him, their faces blurred in the distance of separation, but their jolly waving arms and outstretched hope of the children’s excitement did nothing for his mood.

He returned those waves of course. The friendly little sailor off on his boat on the Elysian morning, dropping all troubles in his wake as he sailed towards the sun.

But they didn’t know.

The day betrayed his thoughts. The sun that stared down at him seemed to mock his melancholy. He didn’t begrudge the happiness he saw that day. The happy families walking, the smiling people on the beach who skimmed some stones and took in the fresh salty air. The woman with the flowers at the water’s edge. He wasn’t even jealous of their carefree attitude that warm August day.

He wanted to forget. He wanted to forget that he’d been that happy. That each day by day moment, of making a cup of tea or driving to the store was now riddled with the memory of them. The happiness clung to him like a terrible oil, never washing off. Reminding him each second, he would never have it again.

Now that they were gone.

He tried to shut the world out at first. Keeping to himself and the shuffling of the indoors life like a caged bird. Wallowing in his own droppings of depression. Nothing had helped. No conversation to make him make sense of it. No well-intentioned trip somewhere to change his environment or to talk to someone who had been through it before. His world had been darkened, as if someone had placed a veil over his source of light, and now he stumbled around just surviving.

But what for, he’d begun to wonder.

They were no longer there to share the happy times. The little moments that string together for a life. The Sunday morning lay-ins while you run your fingers through their hair. Disappearing into each other’s minds and being lost forever in the eyes that had always drawn him in. Beckoning him like a sea siren that he’d eagerly given himself up to. The beauty in their heart that he longed to only touch for a moment.

And now, each day was a collection of those little moments. But turned ghastly. Like a kebab of mud and dog shit skewed into a new day.

But not today. Today, he taken out that little boat of theirs and set out to sea with the intention of never returning.

[Oh please God. Please, let someone come. Let them come by.]

He began to drift further out to sea now. The tide pulling him on that cord to the horizon. He cursed the sun, its blazing intensity itching his neck and blinding him as it caught the waves. The beach behind him began to melt away, and he felt the creeping peace of the detached. He wasn’t sentimental, but he had brought the ring. The ring they wore, and his own of course. He’d put it on this morning. It didn’t fit comfortably on any of his fingers, they were just so different. Thrown together in a cosmic joke of opposites. Like orange juice to his toothpaste. Oh, the fights they’d had. He twisted the little silver thing now on his finger, turning it round and picturing the last time he’d seen it on their hand. That angry day. He shook his head and found a nicer memory. But this made him more restless, remembering again that it had vanished, never to be seen again.

It was then that a plump grey cloud floated across the sun above him. He looked up curiously, then he felt it. The wind had changed, and a fierce breeze had picked up. He looked out to sea further and he could see it now, the billowing thick black clouds that threatened a storm.

[The waves crashed and swallowed him over again. Spinning him around and throwing him back up to the surface where he gulped in the air and heavy rain which pounded down. He knew these were the last moments, but inside a fire kindled still. Please God. Please, let there be a way.]

He smiled then. Perfect, what a way to go. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was doing, but this way it will look like tragic accident. Less people hurt. Less questions. Less self-analysing on every interaction people had had with him. Could they have done more, should they? What was he doing out at sea in the first place? Of course, they’d ask that. ‘Oh, don’t you remember, they had that boat. Oh Yes, they both loved those little adventures. Oh dear, how terribly sad’.

He could hear it all now, playing out like the end of a film. He didn’t really want to die. But he had nothing left to live for. They weren’t coming back, and he’d built a life around that. He couldn’t change things; they grew into a horrible thorny bush that refused to be cut back; and for that he’d given up. He watched how fast the storm blew his way, his little sailboat rocking heavily in the building surge. He knew there were terrible currents in this area. It seemed nearly every week in the busy season swimmers were dragged out to sea, like invisible seadogs pulling them out and down to meet Poseidon. Hidden riptides were a real killer in this stretch of the coast, and too many people found this out the hard way. He watched the swells and waited for the rain which began almost instantly as the clouds took hold and choked out the sun.

It fit his mood. The rain, the darkness. He imagined some slumbering monster to come up from the deep and seize his boat. A great leviathan that he could stare into the eye of and succumb to as it tore him to shreds. The sweet relief of death.

[Gasping. Aching. Lungs heavy. He struggled to open his eyes as the salt water washed through them like an unabated flood. Time to shut off. Time to shut down. You cannot go on, the tiny voice in his head said. That opponent who always brought the worst. God, why won’t you help me? It spluttered…. Wait. I will not end it like this. There is a way. Someone will come. Hope in hope. He told himself, and pictured a boat drifting hauntingly towards him, outstretched arms to come and rescue his weary bones.]

He took off his shirt, letting the sea spray splash against his chest. He wanted to feel something, anything before the end. He wanted to curse the sea for what it was doing and embrace it all at the same time. The conflicting light and dark that was within him and shifted like a sand in a pot of water. Swirling in a confused state of inaction. He wanted to be brave and turn his boat around. He wanted to be strong and dive headfirst into the waves and drown a million deaths and be gone.

And then he spotted him. A tiny head, no bigger than that of a pebble, floating on the sea like it had been placed there by God.

He shook himself, trying to dislodge the image. The trickiness of life, trying to get him to reconsider. To go home, procreate. Settle down and carry on. He rubbed at his eyes, but the image didn’t change. Instead it now came with sound. The shouts of a boy calling for help.

In his head, he’d always wanted to be good. That he’d be a good person no matter what was thrown at him through life. That he would do the right thing when called for. But he was ashamed to say he did not move straight away. His first thoughts did not fly to steering his little boat over to the boy and rescuing him. It wasn’t fear, shock or any other rationale response. He simply watched the scene for a few minutes for the sheer disgusting beauty of it all. The tragedy at his hands and before his eyes like a great Greek scene played out on a canvas before him. The rolling waves, the heavy rain. The black clouds like a collapsed volcano above. He had no notion of being the hero, but there was something there. Like the beauty of a funeral in the ugly face of death that he savoured. Momentarily.

[There! Is it? Of course, it is, I knew they’d come. They just had to.]

He steered his little boat over to the boy and reached into the sea and helped him out. He was heavy and broken. Battered by the waves and exhausted by staying afloat for so long. The riptide of course that had ensnared him, pulverised him into the eyes of death. Plucked him away from the beach that he was swimming by, his dad napping under a sun umbrella the last time he saw him. It had felt like an age, and he couldn’t guess how long he’d been out to sea for. Safe inside the boat now, he smiled an exhausted smile and thanked the man before passing out, waking up later in the hospital with his dad by his side.

After pulling him into the boat, the boy had thanked him and collapsed into a heap. He rushed to get a blanket from down in the cabin, hurrying back and covering the boy. He must get back as quick as he could. But the wind and the rain, the sea and his early wishes of disaster were too strong. Ensnared in the thick of the storm, the boat was pulled out further and further. The land but a distant blur to him now. He watched as the waves crashed over his bow, the sleeping sea monster now fully awake, causing havoc.

He had set out that day with a simple wish. To disappear completely. But something inside him shifted, something he knew was there all along. He never wanted to live just to live. There was no reward to just surviving in a life. Too many people shuffled day to day, along the road of an unchanging existence. Being the same person when they die, to how they lived. His own God had died in him long ago. Swept out to sea in the sad goodbyes and people he could not keep close. He wasn’t swayed by the sentimental timely appearance of the boy in the boat. The young life so innocent and full of years ahead.

He would save him, yes. But it hadn’t melted his heart in the way that was expected. Instead, as he’d looked into the scared and thankful eyes of the boy, he saw a hope, a thirst; a need for something that he recognised. More than survival, but of a certainty of living and being. It was as if a layer had peeled off his heart, and just a crack of light had shone inside. This boy, who had everything before him, could be snuffed out on this sea, without the course of a life to change from what he had come to this planet as. He himself had sunk lower than the depths of those shipwrecks beneath him now. Not seeing the sun or the light. But a stirring within him whispered of change. Of a great reveal of something. He no longer wanted to die. He wanted to return to the coast, for reasons he now understood.

He swung the boat a hard turn to port and screwed his eyes in a determination towards the storm. He hoped to make it towards the inlet on the eastern side of the bay. He knew this to be better protected, and it might give him a chance. He hoped for a small break in the weather so he could get his bearings a little. His hand dug into his pocket, and he felt the ring inside there, strangely warm in his hand. He looked off into misty rain and he searched for a way, hoping for a change. And then, suddenly the rain halted.

He smiled. Not on his face which was soaked in spray and tears, but inside, feeling a little bit of the black melt away.

“So, did anyone catch his name?” the doctor said, scratching copious notes onto her clipboard. She struggled to believe much of what she had been told. The boy’s condition did not fit the events of the day. He was sleeping now, but what his body had been through, did not show on the tests or in appearance.

“No-one did, no. He just appeared, calling for an ambulance. I knew it was Michael there though, and I was just relieved to see him again.” His father said, sipping the black coffee that had appeared moments before from his daughter who had returned from the hospital canteen.

“Quite the mystery then. But it looks as though Michael is out of the woods.” She said, clicking her pen and putting it into her pocket. She wasn’t one for fairy tales, she was busy; and had no time to indulge in mystery angels or heroics. She saw heroes every day in her colleagues, she knew there was a reality to miracles they performed that went unnoticed. “We’ll monitor him overnight, but I would advise getting some rest yourself. The events of the day have probably taken a toll on you also.”

“I just hope we can find him is all. I want to thank him for saving my son’s life.” The man said, snuffling a little, not used to being emotional in front of strangers. She smiled a fraction, her heart always warmed by appreciation.

“Hope in hope.” she said, and turned to leave the little hospital room, which had a view of the sea from high up on Bartholomew hill. The waves now much calmer, the gods of the ocean pacified it seemed for the time being.


More fables here.

When you think about your life, I surround you in gentle sympathy

Oily hands which pin warnings to the walls of your paper cathedrals.
Closing their eyes to the view of sorrow.
It stretched before them, and under your skin.
Cool, when not engulfed in such flames of disgust.
Little cracks in stone, slowly crumble pillars of discontent.
The columns that held our gods too high.
Out of reach, on the horizon.
How can we touch the finger of god.
When we choose to crawl on swollen bellies.
Pick the needle which will penetrate the precious heart.
Kept in glass, and passed down and around but never treasured.
Wake up those angels which sleep inside.
Do not run and hide, from a future which began yesterday.
Tip the grey to another shade and shake out a song.
One which can be played at any funeral.
Signalling a death of something, and the beginning of such wonder.

Freedom found you

Illuminated, the folds of heaven.
Bitten torn feathers.
With plucked thorns from our skulls.
That you and me.
Bittersweet.
Red, like the veins of a tree in autumn.
Washed in golden light.
Drunk with sacred hymns that sing in your bones.
I see the lotus bloom in your eyes.
I want to hear your temple sing.
These snow covered aspects, higher.
Above the shelf we cannot reach.
Tickled by the zephyr underneath.
No longer the caged bird that sings.
But the sparrow that stole the sky.

Lost in the faraway

The conjuring dreams.
Of moments in time.
Love lost on your lips.
Your hand in mine.
Kicking this cactus heart around.
Fresh like mint on my tongue.
Calling you out of the clouds.
Out of my bones that feel as heavy as China.
One of those falling dreams.
Like you’re here.
But still gone.

Seahorse

The Saturn rings look like halos above you.
Don’t move, you look divine.
Around your feet the seahorses play, kicking up moon dust memories.
You find me, deep down in the Mariana trench, decaying like an old wreck.
Do not ask me to play hide and seek now, I do not know the universe as well as you.
1, 2, 3, 4…..Comets shoot across my sky, turning the blackness to fire.
I’m blinded and momentarily lost.
You paralyse me with your tongue, licking sweet sensations.
Then flicking me with words that sink in, deep into the bloodstream.
My nakedness parades in full as I stroll across the moon.
Swim to the ocean floor, swim forever more in the sea that seems beyond tranquil.
8, 9, 10….ready or not.
You found me, just north of Neptune wearing my own crown.
You say it suits you better, everything always does.
I diminish in ill-fitting clothes of the emperor. Falling into threadbare solitude.
Will the trident ever be tested? How much blood needs to flow into these craters to satisfy?
Throw me back to the tide and cast your net further afar.
Let the oceans pull you away, so I never let you plunge my Atlantis into dismay.
My pyramids will be forever mine alone, a place I can go to weep and smile.
Watching the earth follow the moon.

Dislocate

This life, that fear of loving.
Of believing what is all around here.
A junction in your bones, fragile and misdirected.
Second hand bodies that fall like sad embarrassed eyes.
Only when the lights are out.
These fears call out your name.
Swim into your dreams and pollutes this bloodstream.
Who touched that velvet treasure?
You take rib, and scream a pleasure.
I feel the truth like each vertebrae.
You dislocate.
You propagate a new feeling within me.
A love so tender and tasty, it reeks of construction.
Of chaos and completion.
Slid off the bone of life.
All the noise seems to fade away.
To a coffin quiet existence that allows me to hear the future.
While you cover this love in salt for protection.
And I hold your bones in mine.
Counting the path of your spine.
Silently whispering to the angels a thanks.
For returning what once was ours.

Diminish

So eloquent and troubled.
How deep the pool must sink.
The surface never rippled.
Never stuttered.
You never blinked.
And in our hearts we took to you.
Like water from the wine.
As thirsty disciples we followed.
Dedicated.
Yet out of time.
Now as you crumble into nothing.
As the mask begins to fall.
We hold you even higher.
And hang your heart up on the wall.

Saints (attached)

The blankness of the shadows that pass.
Yet wonders dwell underneath.
Hidden stories that flow like lava mines.
Emotions running deep.
Eyes that meet on the train.
Skin that breathes all the same.
We are each a spark of light.
Glowing intermittently in the cold expanse of now.
Reduced down as the 20th century folded.
The devils may click their tongues, and hide in caves.
Dipping into those darkness pools.
But we are stronger in the sun.
Renewed and burning with a soul-ar flame.
And I move with purpose with an alleviated heart.
Often reminded of the angels I’m among.

Docked in dry sand

How can we be close to God?
When the anger flows. Corroding inside out.
Does God bleed like me, with a fire in the veins?
Turning the petals of penitence to ash.
The devil can just read my mind.
Slipping underneath in the night like a snake under the doorway.
Yet I know I left the door ajar.
And a candle lit, to light the way.
We have wings, yet we walk through the desert of the day.
Complaining over each grain of sand we find.
And the pebbles of people in our shoe.
Hardening our skin to a lesser sin.
A dehydrated delirium takes me.
And these wings grow frail and dry.
And even though we try, we may never sail the ocean skies again.