Surface tension

Casting eyes to a blackening sky.
Shivering under circumstance.
Move this body to a state of change.
Sinking these broken teeth into something new.
It ripples in the heart and hangs heavy in the air.
A surface tension which paralyses.
It came up from the lava beds beneath.
Strummed, from the line to God.
This world swims in static like rain in the heat.
Fuzzing the wavelength and heralding pain.
It travels through these nerves.
That crimson city circuit beneath this skin,
which is fraying at the edges.
A thread of truth pulls like a vein to my heart.
Collapsing these teeth to the dust of a civilisation past.
It’s now the song in your chest.
Beneath the static pool of pressure lies the stone.
Dropped in by the devil years before to break the strain.
We swam in the sins of the moment.
Now this headache hangover heaves like yesterday’s terrible news.
And the stone sits under us, digging into our bones.
What breaks such tension?
What spirits such relief?
I look into chalky eyes and tired faces to find an answer.
It will lie, either in sleep or the deep.
For that’s where most fears shelter.
That’s where monsters are always slain.
Isotopic reactions, thundering like the rain.

 

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Amber decay

Those eyes, like looking glasses.
Capture the world in a distorted array.
Seeped of all colour and upside down.
Turning around this fallen crown.
This sweet elaborate fantasy.
Dances on these teeth.
Pirouettes of plenty, singing in ivory.
Swallowed into that choking void.
Caught like fossilised plants trampled under dinosaur feet.
Extinguished, by the weight of their world.
What grief is there for time that is folded?
Pealed back by god, like the flesh off a wound.
Stings for the moment, heals in a heartbeat.
Forgotten by the time you wake.
You may search, yet only ever find bits of me.
The million little pieces that occupy space, time; dreams that don’t die.
Does it wriggle in your stomach, those dancing moments remembered?
Do I rip inside you skull when you wish to forget?
The hungry ghosts of me may feed forever on your soul.
Born of the schism between you and I.
For where I hoped we would be lost forever in time.
You hurried a much crueller demise.
In loving forever from a far.
Farewell this amber heart.
Precious only to the fact it survived so very long.

Prepare a path

This heart in distant forms.
Washed with the dawn break and sudden mark of existence.
You were my candle in the night.
Silencing the lies they told me about god.
Names for you count like the stars in the heavens.
‘Eternity’ is one; ‘salvation’ another.
Sweet, like pouring honey into my ear.
Covered in gold and heavy in my soul like sand.
The wardens of this sky still call to me.
Shadows and light flitting across the clouds.
But I am not ready to fold.
This blood is still warm and runs through us both.
A matter a million times true.
For the end comes when there is nothing left.
And for now, I’m still covered in pieces.
Finding ways to fix what was broke.
Making ways to your heart.

Rain

Tears from god. He always thought of that in the heavy downpours. The type where you can feel the stinging weight of the raindrops on your body, the cold water pelting your face. His mother used to call it that, heavenly tears. What was god crying about all the time?

He’d set off into the night just as the first drops had begun to fall. He’d smelt the rain coming, rushing to put on his boots and set out into the village to catch it. He’d grabbed his jacket but didn’t bother with an umbrella. He wanted to feel the water tonight. He wanted to feel something.

The sun had set hours ago and the hazy glow of the streetlights above him blossomed down the road he was taking. Each a branch up out of the dead black road beneath his feet, offering beautiful orbs of light to the angels above him, and who were threatening to leave. He saw how the sheets of the rain splintered across the face of the lights, little streaks through the glow like tiny missiles before disappearing into the void of the nothing.

That nothing welcomed him tonight as he walked. It spoke to him of a new solitude which he was happy to lay his bones within. The night and the rain were pure and wild, base elements that ravaged the world. He’d stepped into them before, drowning once and becoming lost in the darkened forest of his mind.

Tonight he just needed to walk. To smell the fresh air and feel the waters smother his face. The coldness came with the rain tonight also, and he watched his breath escape out into the air like his soul leaking away. He licked his lips, tasting the rain water; feeling the flecks of the divine in those tears shed from above.

The village began to open up into fields at this end, sweeping pastures plunging down the valley where the water would rush and flow like a tide on land, going out in a grassy sea. He heard nothing but the falling rain, but he watched as lonely cars moved slowly off in the distance. Little specs of light, haunting eyes that hovered across the fields where the main road was. What lives did those little tin cars carry? What stories and sadness did the souls within survive. Somewhere tonight he thought, one of those cars will fall victim to strong salty tears. Skidding and colliding somewhere and snuffing out the contents within. Plunging an unfolding tragedy into the lives of those who knew, loved and would now miss those dying embers. Collecting rain water in the crumpled remains of the squashed tin can.

His mind had become saddened as late. His body had struggled to move in the mornings when the alarm would ring in a new day like a gospel chorus. He muscles and bones a defying demon to the angelic blessing of the new dawn. He would lurk in the shadows of life, disconnect from the buzzing beast of the people he knew.

He only stepped out when it rained.

It would wash something away, something out of him. He felt it down on his clothes, the gravity of the water that was pulling down into the DNA as he walked. And he walked through the village, out towards the fields. Watching the clouds and the little lights that blinked in and out like struggling stars.

Then there was his own tired tears, that he could no longer censor. He would cry his own monsoon when he was truly alone. Weeping out to add to the rain until his forehead ached and his throat was sore. He let the ghosts in, and they would pillage his mind. Playing films in his head that he felt were on repeat. Never able to rewind or go back. Never flooded out by the rising waters that surged over everything, all but the things he most wanted most to drown.

He came to the end of the track he’d be walking. The huge brambles and blackberry bushes converged to block the way. Forcing a path would tear at the skin, ripping open the sore and cold meat that had begun to sting in the frigid air and water. So he turned on the spot, pirouetting like a shadowy ballerina in this hidden dark ballet. Watched only by the audience of nature which cowered in the bushes and the trees, watching for him to retreat.

He walked back the way he came, the roads now washing the rain water down the streets and into the gullies and drains. Leaves and litter sped on those miniature streams, washing away the dirt and despair. He wanted to open a vein and let the vermillion river meet these streams. Wash out the leaves and the junk of his heart and wring his organs dry.

Crossing the street he saw into the windows of the Fountain, the village pub which cast cosy a warmth in the sea of blackness. The huge fire was roaring and people stood and chatted around it with drinks in their hands. The windowpanes ran with the raindrops, tiny tears streaking down giving the people within a false sadness. He could not enter there, he could not be like that. The fire and warmth called to him, but he’d been burnt before. Touched by a heat and love that all too soon had smothered and gone out. He could still smell the dying of that hearth, still remembered the splutter and the death until there was nothing but ash.

He hurried on by, the rain not relenting. It still felt good, it still felt like something. Returning to his house, he stood in the driveway, looking up to the bedroom light which had been left on in his haste to depart. The little light behind the glass cast a shaft out into the night, like a lighthouse warning of danger. He took a step forward, and hesitated. Had he turned the light on at all?

He stayed on the spot and let the rain fall around him, off in the distance he heard the slow rumblings thunder. A struggling beast waiting to get up from underneath a mountain. The light in his bedroom switched off as he blinked the water out of his eyes. He dropped the keys he’d been clutching and turned around, heading off back into the night.

Heading off again into the tears from god.

Alchemy

 

These souls so full they re-align.
Separated by thoughts and time.
Which hold a love that extends to all.
Who reign above, and for those who fall.
And do not let the world go dark.
But ignite the hope within each spark.
This alchemy that turns hate to kind.
 Our lives, our world, all intertwined.

 

Failures washed over his workbench, dripping down his life. His quest to find the secret of changing lead into gold had consumed and shaken his soul. Yet he had merely strayed from the path he was meant to travel, clouded by the misty haze of obsession. When a little book comes into his life, it realigns his fate and lets the alchemy truly begin.

‘Alchemy’ is a story about a man’s evolution at the end of his life and how his preciousness is valued, not in the gold he makes; but the changes that he conjures. Strewn around poems that lead from dreams to magic, and prayers to happiness; the story navigates from despair to adjustment in surreal and magical landscapes.

Poetry and storytelling collide in this hybrid tale that mixes spirituality with personal well-being.

Alchemy is out now in e-book and paperback.

Tsunami

We stand on the shore, called down by the ocean.
The sweet swell motions the blood.
Reminds me I am human.
I feel safe in this storm.
As the wind rushes these bones.
Threatening the inevitable damage, I wait for the change.
Holding out for such wild destruction.
This land knows me not, we are but visitors here.
Collecting coconuts of contempt that we store for every season.
Each man an island. Each one built on sand.
Atlantis parading in peril.
Off on the horizon the ship struggles.
Souls shuffle, towards that great divide.
For that I cry.
But the tempest suffocates.
Throws away my tears, out into the eye that hovers.
And weeps only painful laments.
God watching on, lifting no finger.
Remembering the flood.
Soon we are drowning, smashed by the waves.
Broken on the shore of our lives that already began to recede.
I crawled once from the sea.
And too it now, we have returned.
Scattered and in pieces.
Littering the ocean floor.

Different degrees of destruction

These trailing stars that shatter through our existence.
Leave chaos and beauty in their wake.
Transcended diamonds embedded in our skin.
Fires burning deep within.
What golden light are we trapped beneath.
Such hazel eyes of god.
My soul is a blackness wrapped around your galaxy.
As you pass through like a luminous shooting star.
Leaving varying traces of your continuance.
Vibrating this space with only departure and grace.
Caring not for the planets that fall.

Afterthought (side B)

He lay on the bed and watched the clouds out the window.
With closed eyes he felt the storm.
Vibrating the hairs on his skin like ghosts passing through.
He buried himself of course, there on his bed.
Sinking into the sheets like a body into a grave.
He was dead from the waist down.
Waiting for the little chalky helpers to plunge the skull.
But the water he felt was from the rain, which tapped at his brain.
Droplets of doubt and remorse.
Tidal fantasies of being swept away.
Yet forever he would lay, in that state of not doing.
Making love to paralysis with the sweet relief of excuse.
He died three days ago, yet still he talked.
Arguing with god, cursing the devil.
Gnawing at the skin of self in a heated display of shame.
He’d known death before of course.
It rattled and moaned around his house since that day.
That awful Tuesday when they left.
He had grown new skin. He had tried to begin again.
But death remained a friend, like a wad of gum stuck in his soul.
He blamed it, he shamed it. He cursed and versed in vain to it.
It was there now, the sad spectator to an actual demise.
Apathetically sweeping up the dust, like one would make a bed.
That bed which heaved with the weight of his guilt.
Throwing out the dreams that played on the ceiling.
While the nightmares wormed underneath.
That bed which was his last embrace now.
Peppered in petals that masked the thorns.
Intimately feeling its way underneath his skin.
And swallowing him forever, in the dandelions of demise.

Life defected

She made herself lost, scratching out her own identity.
How easy the shadows consumed, filling in the voids.
Washing deep into the caves of her soul.
To disappear completely, to cut those cords.
The attachments hurt like rotting teeth.
The tear was quick, rip-trip-flick.
Out into the wide blue, putting an ocean of miles between;
that harrowing of self. The death of dreams.
To be lost entirely tickled her within. Feeling the butterflies rise.
Like when she was a child.
Tantalisingly fluttering on possibilities.
She followed the breeze, winding over roads of bad intentions.
Finding herself underneath rocks and inside the corpses of birds which flew too high to the sun.
She heard her own voice in every crash of a wave, and the cry of each night making way for the dawn.
Her reflection she saw, rippling in the sea of tranquillity and in the eye of god.
To be lost, was how she found her soul.
Cast away on that tiny little craft of self.
On no-one’s tide.
Swallowing only her own light.
This is how she hoped it could be, all lost of time and space and never found.
And still she floats, and dives and flies.
Further from the sun each day, hoping to escape her own Milky Way.

Awaken

As the heat raises the veins, little ridges of tracks.
This voice travels through those purple tunnels.
The tinkling of endorphins.
An inner voice of confirmation.
God splashing around in the scarlet nightmare.
But the beat in the chest, is the blood hitting the walls.
Everything now comes alive.
Tiny touches, like giant leaps on the moon.
Cradle a feeling that returns us to childhood.
Where sticky iced creamed hands shake at the thought of summer.
To see the flowers bloom.
Or the sun burst out of the sky.
Is the announcing of a state.
A passive suggestive trait.
That happiness finds us in the end.

Verdure adjustment

Needle pines in palms.
The leaves grow, flow and blossom off these fingertips.
The brush of the wind, like the breath of mother earth, rustles what has formed.
Green, like the emerald forests that now hold my bones.
They sway and swoon catching the dying sun.
Holding onto the little jewels of oxygen for a moment too long.
Before the great exhale.
A chance to turn clouds into mountains that sail over tempting shores.
The leaves, bitter smelling like eucalyptus and amphetamines.
Fragrant and fragile, I break at a careless touch.
For the sun often harms, and this brittle heart demands a different type of love.
Shaded and soft, like a kiss from butteries’ feet.
Touching these olive blades deep.
High, tall and commanding if left in the sight of love.
These leaves, fronds of sweet depth cruise upwards.
Wanting to touch the sky.
And caress the face of God.

RED #4: A methemoglobin state of prayer

A half-light silently wanders into sight.
It’s the beating throb of the world.
Now masked in shadows which crept out of us while we slept.
When the ghosts departed.
A dying embrace of an old lover.
The bottled words of a mother who told us to keep out of the road.
While we played, with such abandon, in the town.
On the steps of a church whose windows we’d smashed.
This lumbering giant of trouble, draws our blood.
While we stretch out our hands now in prayer.
To a god no longer there.
All in the shadows of broken mosques and beloved vampires.
Which we willingly idolize.
These empty hands reach for a comfort.
Waking up in pain.
Bruised and bloodied like knees of school kids.
Us in our youth, climbing the tree that hung over the stream.
Dripping the merlot drops into that crystal clear water.
Blurring our own reflections.

Cold murmur

I will always find you there.
Where the winter turns on high.
Deep down in those memories.
Still you will try to assuage.
Cutting cloths of gold to patch and plaster.
Those were the delicate days.
Filled with stories and culverts where dreams were forming.
To reduce it down to youth is insulting.
You were wicked and wild, level headed in times of crisis.
We were shamed by your glory.
Manoeuvred into your frame to sparkle in the dying sun.
The forest claimed that reasoning.
Covered it in snow, the blood of the berries as our hurt.
Primitive was that love.
A vagrant call to the future with two fingers up at god.
All too soon it collapsed.
Shattered into blue.
You remained frozen in that time.
Dreams dipped in diphtheria, coughing up only blood.
As the rest melted into the tomorrow.
We find you locked in the frozen landscape.
We call into the woods to find you once again.
But you remain, cold and unforgiving.
Trapped in ice.

Violent Psalms

Hallelujah.
The stars inhaled.
A waking darkness crashes into these eyes.
I hear the havoc in this hymn.
And see the shapeless violence crawl forth.
Please, swear now to god and offer forgiveness.
Excuse the trauma that rages out of heaven.
It rained down like this before.
I saw London swallow whole the eternal demise.
It never exhaled this life, this evening, this being.
God left beauty for the angels.
The ugliness of change clings to his fingertips.
Such violence.
But sit, crouch, cry out into the nothingness that now stretches endlessly.
And pull apart that blackened struggling heart.
Which heaves with knowledge and remembering.
Then wash it out with diamonds and blood from those who cared.
Smile towards heaven and forgive those there.
Redemption bears down on all.
Then cry out black tears which curdle in the air.
While the world wipes clean and shudders into tomorrow.

Still

Sad footprints in the snow.
Leading us into the unknown.
The tiredness clings to our faces, having wasted such time.
Scratching and clawing our way into nothingness.
Silently they surround me.
Little birds of explanation.
Their vibrant feathers of understanding flutter in the summer sky.
How far had the fall been?
How deep did the chasm in my heart drop?
Never to be filled, yet clinging and yearning for the wanting.
For the void of the material.
Junk in the soul.
A whisper in my ear is not the breath of god.
The hand on my head is not an angelic caress.
It’s the apology I give to myself.
The embrace of my own arms, wrapped in forgiveness.
Head bowed in respect.
A stillness rises in me.
Loud like the winter.
Blooming like the spring of being the god within.
Sacred and defined.

93

Lost, feeling the way out.
Travelling through the veins of god.
Hearing that global heartbeat.
I want to swallow the moon tonight.
To feel the tidal shift in my stomach.
To spit out the bones of the past.
And the well-travelled tin cans.
I touch this earth, and it feels like home.
Yet when my eyes blink open.
I am crushed by the weight of this world.
I belong here, but a million miles behind in time.
Waiting for the palm leaves and ferns to sprout in my veins.
I wish to return, and remain.
Eating forbidden fruit.
Running with the beasts.
Perhaps the change will come from inside.
Washing over me like conscience.
Seeing the divine in all that my eyes lay upon.
This is our home. It’s our only one.
Ninety three million miles from the sun.

Lune à l’esprit

These moments, like pearls on silver lips.
Gently spun and mouthed in wonder.
Consumed by the burning fire of solar saturation.
A golden treasure that I can sit beneath.
Counting coins and constellations.
Never equalling my love for you.
We are but pieces of a shattered moon.
That fell to earth when the world was sleeping.
They never knew how I kissed you, pioneered your love.
Discoverer. Sweet foreign terrain.
Unknown to them in the quietness above.
We are blank space and white noise in their muddled worlds.
Silent, like the dawn.
Tiptoe with me now, to the edge of the unknown.
These transparent moments.
Into the corner of god’s pocket.
Un-stitching fabric and time, eager to breathe the space of the infinite.
And air that sets my soul alight.
Burning the past and dancing on the surface.
Of a moon that those below can only howl at.

The Flowers of revolution

Have you seen?
God’s opportunity.
Inside psalms which scratch your heart.
Voices so strong they stabilise heaven.
Disappear and discover that new challenge.
Which calls you higher.
You remember the way I fell.
I remember your outstretched healing hands.
It’s my only reference point now.
Blooming the songs and suspicions in my mind.
How could you be so sincere?
This imagination comes alive and shakes me.
My snow globe mind.
And in mind of my defence, I used to not believe.
Your simple kiss changed that.
And shook me deep.
These flowers I now weep.

Second guessing

Disappearing now.
The time came suddenly, like a Monday morning.
Calling you, as long lost friend.
You took a hold of the avalanche and held your breath.
Erasing all in a brilliance of white and gold.
No more tomorrow thinking.
Or second guessing.
Passing now into something else.
Not man made.
Between interstellar space, and home.
It was so easy to dive in, to dive through the dark this time.
Not like before, when you tried. When you failed.
And the water froze you like heartache.
A new terrain looms in your eyes.
This escape is now your land.
No longer the mistress or mister, the sister or ghost that your tried to figure out.
Your god.
Take the keys, and say goodbye once more to the floor which once pulled you.
An inconvenient gravity.
Breathe in, and out again like holy oxygen.
Disappear and explore.
Once more.

Broken blossoms

Heady vacant leaves blow in from the past.
Caught in the teeth of wisdom.
The coldness of a touch, when war has begun.
Leaves all but the strong shaking.
A flattening of houses and trust that was built.
Crumbling and grumbling in the ruins of despair.
Who takes you there?
To the banks of a river now black like tar.
Awash with the rubbish and junk of petty squabbles.
This fighting is good for only the undertaker.
Who buries our souls and dignity at night.
When no-one is watching to see the sad failure of hope.
A scab of regret will build and tower over this land;
this heart, and this space we’ve placed ourselves in.
The devil lines the walls with sickly cement of apathy.
Only god can peel it back and flick away the decay.
Letting the scars heal in the light and air of tomorrow.
As we bathe in holy water and the tears of trying.

Turning blue

Why is my world painted red?
No home, no hope, no heart.
Cast on a raft headed to the end.
Your vermilion tongue spits these thoughts.
A fever and the fakery that expands.
Yet these lies break in my hands.
And the hope swims beneath.
Blue and enticing. Like the ocean in god’s eyes.
A Sweet expanse of blue.
And nothing like you.

Set the birds free

Where are you going to?
The voice asks, cold like decision.
To set the birds free.
And act, long forgotten.
It had covered over into memory.
By the tide of life.
What will happen?
I do not know, I replied.
Opening the veins, so god could peek inside.
They did that once before.
And we never forgot.
Yet this now seems strange to you?
Yes, because the birds usually nest in the garden.
Not in your heart.
This morning, I will set them free.
Then do it quickly, for I cannot watch.
Does the action bother you, the flapping of wings?
No, not that.
I cannot stand to see freedom, when I’m still locked inside.
The birds inside you I fear, have died.
Yes, but yours can still fly to heaven.
They will fly free at least.