I Will Show You Love

I will give you sheep's grass and lay you down so low,
swinging you breezily where the rat-race never goes.
I will take you to penny-arcades and two-bit rides on the pier,
put you in a go-cart - I'll even let you steer.
And when we slow I'll sweep back your hair, whisper in your ear.
I'll descend down from Heaven, on a zephyr from above.
And I will give you summertime, I will show you love.

I will dream of children when I look into your eyes,
and I'll forget the stars because you've given me the skies.
I will run through thunderstorms then step out into spring,
present to you my heart, in two butterfly halves, wing
it onto you, and then present you with a ring.
I'll put you up on a pedestal, on my shoulders, on a bluff,
for I will send you skywards: I will show you love.

I will take your hand, my love, protect you through this life.
My tongue shall be a sleeping beast, my hands two sharpened knives.
I will walk on by your side, carry you when you're weak,
and though you think I'm strong, I'll show you that I'm meek,
and all the while I have you, you will yet be the one I seek.
Because there's so much in you - not just a peaceful dove.
You're the eagle; I'm Prometheus, and I will show you love.

Baby, Flood Me

Baby, flood my body with the light;
scrape out the darkness with female bite.
Take me and carry me in your sight.
Trawl my bed and clear my head,
carry me, you bird of prey: I'll be your kite.

Baby, flood me down deeper with cool water,
flood me down deeper than I care to go
and drown out the bottom of this ocean
and oceanless I'll follow, to and fro
in the desert of your love: I'll let you
launch your sun at my back from above.

Baby, flood me: flood out the darkness.
Balance me on your scales, your scales of light.
I'll never dread the bread of our love's communion
for in that exchange, that fleshy union
you give me the eye of the eye of the eye of your sight.

Love Should Grow

Sometimes it seems
that there is so little of the world left - 
how could we have done it?

The world is not TV or radio or newspapers -
it is bullet-holed skulls,
labourers' cracked hands,
the milky skin of virgins,
the gnashed teeth of murderers,
the quiet rapture of two lovers
in a candle-haloed room. 

So answer me,
how could we have done this?
And where has the time gone?
And when will the time come?
And why did Nick Drake die at 26
a virgin? 

And why is love always only
emerging, when 
it should be
right here
bursting
from
the two of us.
for ever? 

The universe is for ever
life is for ever,
but we are the brief arrangements
of cells. I look upon you
in absolute wonder,
Auden's words ringing in my ears: 

lay your sleeping head, my love, 
entirely the human,
upon my faithless arm,
and Armitage can cleave it 
from the joint or seam 
if that's what love means,
carry a gun, signal the alarm.

You are a miracle,
life is fantastical,
and I want to celebrate in it with you
before the clock runs
your beauty down
to the wind.

Ramblings on a Sentiment

She said,
'wouldn't it be nice
to wake with each morning
to the laughter of children?'

And I said,
'well, after a while
you get used to it,'
not meaning, of course,
that the laughter of children
is an odious thing.

It's nice to give wing
to the merry of kinder,
and bask in the splendour
of freest laughter.

Elsewhere laughter is in
short supply:
murder, trachoma, slavery,
coercion - human dignity
put in suspension.

There you'll find that 
nothing grows
and the only laughter
is windblown, the 
murderous murder,
a cacophony, of crows.
Where the vultures pick the land,
and the ruler's the gallows.

So yes... my reply to you.
Here goes:
it's nice to see children
blooming, flowering, arising
with the rose.
The bud outweighs the thorns:
people aren't born prickly
or sickly: we just make them so

by forgetting that the thorns
are just as much a part
of the flower, and that
each deserves to peel open into
its fullest, reddest power.

Riposte to a Poem (The Night Worker)

I am a creature of twilight

and I work by night.

The night worker.

I wake with the winking 

of the daylight

as the husk of day shivers

down to its last coils 
of luminescence.

We live in the brief

burst of light, the slot

between the nine-to-five's 

finishing and where I

arise. Call it four o'clock,

where the light is softly 
dimming down

to match the pastel colour

of your rose cheek.

I work beneath neon lamp,

neon light rippling 

my hi-vis-yellow back,
in the stock yard, from my cab.

I take my tea whilst most

are drifting down to

their delta deep:

I don't sleep,

I eat: I'm eating

dreams.

I work through morning's rising,

greet that old friend

whom is always surprised

at my gazing to His

easterly birthing,

His slow emerging

from the pocket of night,

from the womb of space.

I punch out at six

and shoulder my bag,

leaving for home. 
From hereon it's a race
to peace, to you - to 
sleep. I get in at

seven and

ascend to heaven

up the stairs

to you sleeping, me unaware

that I've disturbed you from your dreams.

But now you bequeath on me

the colours of your sun

that has risen with you 
from your winks

into the room. You smile from the pillow

where your dreamy head makes its recess,

calling me to bless the patch

beside you

where you lay to rest.

I'm stripped down to my chest

and make waves into the folds

into that cotton sea where froth

the foams of distant oceans.

You cradled on my arm,

me enveloped in your caress,

we huddle to the hush

of the water's lullaby shush; sink,

to bottom out in inky black,

before the evening calls me back.

Twenty Seconds

Twenty seconds of bravery
can change your life -
it can be the difference between
isolation and a wife.

It can be the thread that weaves
your life into a oneness,
air into a tapestry.

Twenty seconds of courage
could make or break
a dynasty.

Twenty seconds of bravery
could sow the seeds
of destiny.

And twenty seconds of bravery
can never be undone -
if all this stems from one moment,
just think of what more good can come.

Red, White and Blue

I am a white man.
Cut me and I bleed red.
Bump me and I bruise
blue.

But why do I feel more green?
Is it the green seam of ganja
running down
my cool temperament?

And why yellow?
Is it because I
easily mellow
and say what I mean?

And why red?
I do not dread
my bleeding blood;
it feeds the Earth:
my ochre bed.

And yes,
it could be said
that

I am easily white,
definitely under-read,
and I'll forever be
blue.

But how about you?

A Prayer

Plunged into the dark of God
it summons from the night a flare,
and fires back into your eye
the outline of your heart, this prayer.

The outline of your heart, this prayer
shall spark a light inside your eye,
illumine up the night, and summon in a flare
the answer, plunged back from the dark of God.

Untitled Poem to My Love

Outside it's raining
so maybe
why I'm writing this
does not need explaining.

I once heard a punk poet say
that he wrote his poetry
around the kernels
of only a few lines....

If I could see your eyes
with each and every day
in different light, tone, temper,
I would write you quatrains.

I would write you quatrains,
and turn my life into poetry
and my flesh into sonic vibrations;
I would sew you into the air,

and publish them in your ear,
softly, on the end of my spear.
Now, wouldn't that be dear?
Fuck the rest: they can think it queer

for all I care.
For the tongue is a spear,
and the heart is a torch;
and good love debauched is the only thing I fear.

Queen

God save
the haemophiliac
plutocrat.

She's a queen -
not 'our' queen.
Just a queen.

But what does that mean?

For soldiers wouldn't
storm out
from their hive -
what does she do
to keep it alive?

The droners might sing
their patriotic song,
but for whom?
And for how long?

What is this surplus
of royal jelly
never to surcease
from national telly?

The queen's sting
outweighs her wings.
Are all these wrongs
god-given things?

The workers wouldn't lay
down their lives -
not for money.
So where is the nectar?

And where
is the honey?