Saturday, 29 August 2015

Here it is; my little book of signals, well-worn page upon page of alarm.
We are the captains of sister ships and from ever-constant latitudes
we convey what we've learned.

This flag is blue. Acknowledge.
This one is black. Rest/space.
Here, the colours are mad and confused. Error/attention.
And then there is gorgeous, critical red.

Let's stop encoding the weather, my dear.

Tuesday, 21 April 2015

NaPoWriMo 20

I know that try as I might
to put my fingers on you,
you are not like the moon
or the sea, or the stars.
You in no way resemble
an historic revolution
nor crowning glory -
not one divine calamity,
nor any worshipped thing
or valued prize of note.

If I say you recall to me
some splendid piece of music,
art or industry, it only serves
to show them meagre things.
Distinct from any raving,
heart-stirred temper,
any desperate madness
as described in detail
by a better mind than mine.

There is not a single heroine
or a favourite pair of jeans
that catches light the way
you are inclined always to do.
The very light itself, whether
atmosphere azure
or a sunlit shade, is not
quite you, try though it might.

And if the sharpest wit
or barbed retort
might shame an empress,
it fades to but a whisper
in the dark under your eye.

The world becomes white noise.
The stars and moon and sea
white noise. No thing in nature
or otherwise conceived
will ever hold a passing thought
because they are not you.

Friday, 17 April 2015

NaPoWriMo 17

Dave wants to be my friend.
Jane drives me round the bend.
Frankie is eating pork pie.
I'm bored.
Heidi's not gay but she's bi.
Good Lord...

I really don't care
about all of you there
but isn't it time
for I, me and mine?


NaPoWriMo 16

We are slow dancers, scoring life with feet,

leaving in our wake disordered music,
upon a stage where oil and water meet.

Find with pace a tendency to lose it.
Seeking rhythm or some mad alignment,
leaving in our wake disordered music.

Full of weight we tackle our assignment,
track of foot referring to our centre,
seeking rhythm or some mad alignment.

Here a partnership we dare to enter -
skipping hearts that share a kindred step,
track of foot referring to our centre.

But oh, to steal a lead we must misstep.
We are slow dancers, scoring life with feet,
skipping hearts that share a kindred step
upon a stage where oil and water meet.

Wednesday, 15 April 2015

NaPoWriMo 15

Dear Writer,

Please stop. You make me a misery.
This page is full to the very brim,
saturated with sadness and bloated
with mirthless miasma.

Your pen is a slow spillway of
self-pity. The ink a deluge
of woe. I have become your
very worst invention.

A bullet to the foot, or a
smart-ass slipper of concrete.
You've fashioned me from guilt
and a manipulating shape.

This is not love. Just artless piss
toward the wind. Sit back.
Take pause. The cause is long lost
so stop writing shit.

NaPoWriMo 14

You again. we thought we heard

the last of you but look there,
scheming imp, mischievously
stirring wistful memories.

Your fingers on our unsound
bones are unbearable bliss.
Your subtle soul-touch
by turns good and intrusive.

The countenance between
the pair of you is witness
to my audible authority,
be it cut either way.

Exposing with my weave
your innate vulnerability.
Unseen, profoundly felt.
Not even here to be heard. 

Yes, even in silence
your unheralded kiss
bids this body shake,
shiver and sink into sepia.

Monday, 13 April 2015

NaPoWriMo 13

Wanted by the world am I,
oft in desperate short supply,

life's pursuit and worries' root, more
dear than any heap of loot,

hid in all the simplest things, like
flying kites or plucking strings,

found in unexpected places,
remedy for dismal faces,

onto me you all must cling,
I am a fleeting, fickle thing,

find me and the stars you'll bless, for
I am your own happiness.