A Proud Night

Plunged straight into the black sea,
Like the beak of a bird pressed deep into its pouting chest,
So driven in the thick,
That to see is a feat suspended in clouds of fog.

Where success is measured in breathes,
And a long night seems inevitable.

A Normal Forest

Here I am,
Its not where I started,
I can't say when that was,
Or even a location.

I could put myself in green,
In leafy woods,
Backtracking where I've been,
Recalling stories withstood.

In honesty,
There are no trees,
Not even sun rays,
None that I can see.

But here I am,
Content in a room,
On a street,
Leaving soon.

Saints and Elephants

Where elephant bones and tiger bones are more prescious than a humans,
We hang ivory around our necks and wonder at Chinese medicine.

Everyday saints look at the world through stained glass windows made by saints,

In the hope that continually searching for god will make it easier to find a place in the here after.























The Second Coming

A spectacle of people lying on the streets,
With all their faults displayed,
They have borrowed from the sun,
And now their skies are grey.

The children ride through dismal crowds,
Hailing the second coming has arrived,
Gathering bodies in black plastic bags.

Forests re-populate the towns,
Moss covers the store front brands,
Where concrete had gauged out roads and pavements,
Now the original footprints for men.





Train Journey

Lip throwing at birds flying backwards with their heads turned at the shoulder,

Their reflections float on the sea broken under pressure by passing tides,

As boats drift with purpose following invisible sky trails,

Such elemental acrobatics of one sign changing to another improves the marking of time.

And whistles through the horses legs, the fields,
the coast and towards the blue expanse of line.

Rain falls,
Snaps on hard ground,
Like fire cracks,
Drops alive in the wet,
Calling on life to witness,
The flexing below as above.






Martyr

Finding yourself somewhere,
You hadn't planned,
Out of habit,
Is like putting
An ill-fitting halo,
Onto a would be virgin.

Without Earth

Without Earth,
The opportunity of flight,
Lends the shaping of wrists,
Into swan necks,
And a flurry of wing tips,
Spread and pierce the arms and shoulders,
Into the white and red plumage of an
Adventurous sky.





From hell a glass of water looks just like a glass of water.

From above it looks like a sparkling gem in a red desert.

I come here for the afterdark,
Not the aftermath.

I started this morning
Last night.






White on Hands

White on hands,
Thrown into the sky,
Falling like snow,
In childrens eyes.

Take my pot,
And boil the cold,
Away the water,
Lit the stories told.

Flint on air,
And soil to ground,
Sugar gone,
Without a sound.

And all laid bare,
Beneath the shoes,
Bones and breathe,
Fingers and toes.











Nothing at the Door

Making hands like fools,
Our colours shift as lies,
And cannot be turned off,
Like blue heard in the night.

In the faces we can't see,
The following results,
Sides that stir through company,
Exclamations ending sentences pre-built.

We say there's nothing at the door,
Although the knocking we can hear,
The crashing and the whistling,
Ignored like the tears among the years.

So when we answer noises,
That are true yet we mistrust,
Preparations are of little use,
And in all cases we combust.