Saturday, 27 November 2010

Poems for my Father

Forty Years

When you freeze over,
You will be pristine
and glacial.
A slope of marble purity.
A cake of white frost.

You will be chops
and slivers,
Of winsome snow floes.
The collective applauding
Your regal death throes.

Saltless from the tap
And safe by the broil.
Waxing ecstatic
At the thought of
No colour.

Crisper than iced rose-skin,
But fractured the same.
Oil for bile and no
Blood in your veins.

When that solid state
Becomes my own form
And nature,
I'll taste like miasma,
Like effluviant splatter.

I quake at the thought
Of a future sap-self.
I will be pockets
In a soup pot
Of melting ill health.

Stretched like Vitruvius
'Cross a pan of dense humming,
Mouth wide open
At the thought of more colour.

Rest your silky head
On silk, down and grey hue,
And watch me cross the river
On this tough wooden sinew

Covered in pits
And pocks on my face
(All easily attained)
I'll eat whole the bud
Of the life I have gained.

Dash Snow Complex

I am a spew of muddied water,
Luke-warm from your mouth.
Like vicious smokey inhalate,
Nipping at your health.

I enjoy the slobbery,
Of picking up each leg.
I slept a sleep in,
Hollow logs,
As mould bejewelled my head.

Thoughts as foul as cooking gas,
As bleach, as lice, as me,
Ravish my brain and,
Stew me up.
So swallow me in greed.

One day i’ll plant my foot to earth,
And let safety vine my toes,
‘Til then I am the toxic son of,
Mind, of body,
And soul.

Clipped. Or Love's Ruminating Eye

She loves it in the summer time,
When the smoke would last forever.

Those times when the dull and jaded eyes,
Of a normal man’s intent,
Would usurp to form her focal point,
And minus me from them.

She choked upon her princess rule,
We blamed my own collapse.

She shared a kiss with Artisans,
And flew with luminescence,
Then bit my hands to bring about,
My bloodless,

My Swan Neck.

My swan neck arcs for the other one,
Hunkered down with beaten brow,
As a tumult of grey tasting clouds,
Shower down,
The vibrating matter,
Which I can’t evade.
And an end of filth reign,
Blunts precipitate.

So there stands I,
Washed through with decay,
A little bitch whelp,
With no limbs left to stave.

Lilted crooked organs,
Condensed with me on my cross,
My manhood placated,
And stripped of all cloth.

My swan neck bends towards the other one,
Unstitching seams, mourning dreams,
A triplicated wealth of means,
Follows me.

So here Lies I,
Cradled by the news,
That the best way out,
Was only ever through

Night Growth

I try to break each day,
Against my back,
As a latch snaps shut,
On my mindful tact.

Each morning is romance,
And long thought out pleas,
Each dusk is like daybreak,
Enveloping me.

My words are a drool,
Of self indulged nothing,
They fall under a canopy,
Of my own weightless truth.

I feel quite as free,
As doves tied to Earth,
So I’m sewing my eyes shut,
For our collective rebirth

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