Thursday, 11 August 2011

Don't Spit on My Grave

Treat me like waxed paper,
don't spit on my grave.
Don't wear kid gloves
or skirt the pain,
but lift my memory
like a candle,
and, please, don't spit on my grave.

Take me whole
or take me part,
set the flame
into my heart -
reach into
its darkest part,
but don't spit on my grave.

I always had my mode,
truth is refracted
in emotion's prism,
but don't embellish
and don't compact it,
try not to give into elision.

But mostly, all I ask
is for you to save
the best of me.
Don't spit on my grave.


The wind scowls so loud
I can barely think;
the thirst lingers so long
I can barely drink;
the glaring gold
soon falls to ink;
the desert cold
cuts my bones to sand.

Acacia, lizards, scrub, flies,
a place where death patrols the skies,
a place where breath comes in sighs,
a place of shifting seas and land.

I wandered lonely as a dune,
swept past brothers,
watchful clouds loom,
there's something holding
my bones to a tune
of desert death, and its scaly hand.

Note: form was an afterthought - please tell me if you don't think it works.

Squashed Right Down, but Still the Size of God

The clouds catch the wind
in their sails,
pushed along
the rim of the sky,
great vessels
cracked by the sea
dashed by the sea,
they sometimes end in violence
and you can see their
huge greyness
in anger
at end's coming,
but pray do -
please pray do -
and remember their majesty.

Word games

I am like
the wino's coin: spent.

I am like
hatred's letter: sent.

I am like
anger's tenancy: rent.

I am a
curtailed adjective: gent.

Up and swollen: pent,

the lover's mail: forwarded, magenta,
burnt once read.

Sister (Moon)

The late heavy bombardment,
and what thanks did you get?
A pock-marked face
and a night light.

We've trodden on you,
swam in your seas
(with machines, in dreams,
down your estuaries).

The Sea of Tranquility -
o! what humility!
A thousand wonders
all begun in pain,
but when do we look up?
When do we crane?

A milkbottle top,
a smooth, pale rock,
the puller of seas,
self-luminous cheese,
the huntress Diana -
but we threw the spanner.

Sod the wonder,
come the blunder;
great sister of night,
we forgot you, all right.

The stars could outshine you,
the Sun could outline you,
its corona like fingers
caressing your back.

White bride of night,
as you wait at the altar
do you sing to the stars,
sing in light?
Or do you mourn the black?

Father (Sun)

He was always so far,
his alimony merely manna,
rays raised in the depths
of his tumult.
I can almost touch him,
but the memory of him
still burns

my eyes, my hands, my
feet - especially
the eyes.

He'll puff up in death.
never the case in life;
he'll breathe his last breath
and we'll atomise.

Father, did you ever care?
Or were you merely there?
A father must always swear,
but you hold your breath,
a lungful of air;

and after 9 billion years,
puffing red,
you'll say you love us -
that love you'll swear -
but by then we'll all be dead.

Mother (Earth)

Pregnant with minerals,
iron baby churning in the womb,
cornstalk hair bristling,
brushed by the Moon.
Her nerves are trees,
her blotches seas,
oceans her eyes -
corneas the skies.

She sees herself,
her perilous health,
but always she heals;
her lips are sealed.

In the cold of space,
in ancient wastes,
in nothing's womb
where nothing blooms,
she sits in peace.

Beneath the fleece
of atmosphere
her little darlings wander near,
their hearts purloined by petty fear,
but near to them
embrace of love.

The gods are cold,
there flies the dove.

Scar Tissue

I bought 3kg of beef,
cut it into quarters,
looked at all that waste
of cow
and thought,

How can I live with myself?

Poems are Tigers

The imagery
should splash up into your face,
creeping like a sea
with an ocean on its mind,
its watery tendrils
climbing up your skin
to drown you.

Take it all in,
one breathe after another,
filling your lungs
filling you up
taking you off
up into the sky with it.

It comes quietly
screams violently
dies silently
lives bashfully
enters skilfully
leaves whole.

You See It at Dusk

It's a miracle:
you exist!
Ring the bell!
Sound the horn!
Breathe it in.

You exist!

The sweep of cloud
on high,
the blue sky.
Open your eyes. 

You exist!

This is not a simulation.
The light is perfect, the words adequate,
the heart laid out
like a great red salt pan of flesh
before you,
a fan of muscle
so huge,
shivering its wafers
like fingers,
of itself,
so alive.

So run into
the red waters
of your heart,

you exist.