Rakehell, Romance

Small clutches crab on my coat shoulders
Ringing sound chirp singing round
My bleeding ear
Your little stories smiling
At my red-stained lips
Dribble bottle patch on the tree fall
Big bottle in my hand honey
Pink fingertips from blackberries
Quivering bottle glass
Drip drip
Pencil on the paper Perubird
Glass digging the mouth soft
Swallowing hard the honey chirp
Fluttery leaf wings crab clutch my nose
Knead my eyelids with your beak
Pretty Perubird
Sweet song in my dusk heralding sleep
Tell me your little stories
So I can scribble and not weep.

Bloomsbury Freshers’


Along the lampshade street, people streaming from windows and black ties floating outside open doors
They turn like small falling waves glinting in the moonlight, crashing softly
Seeping through the doors surrounded in spray touching walls and jackets
Dully descending stairs or glittering swimmers leap up steps, fly along corridors, drinking food
In bright rooms with yellowed sand wallpapers dripping heat, repeating sound and the buzz and cackle, laughing bobbling seas smiling warmly in aquarian colours, lit by a setting sun.
The bubbling room sighs and coos, an olympian mons spirals by the door for gods and goddesses drifting higher into the clouds, but the air blows through the room humming a friendly tune.
I find myself talking to Venus and have to apologise for everything. She radiates seductive madness and blinks disappointment at me with long lashes, condemns with swirls of golden curls and some young Odin whisks me away to find a friend.
The friend looks like someone I know and Odin goes to tend ravens, witches, warriors and devout followers. The monks of his mischievous mind.
Speaking gladly, thinking sadly. Watching waves washing on the sandy beach. Away from mountains, ice fields and Georgian townhouses. Some sun setting into the night, trees, wine glasses, rocks and bookcases. A crab scuttles by with wonder in its claws and little leglets. Stars shine from skies and windows. Words willing away the dusk into evensong and electric birds chirping.
She smiles. The sun holds its set somewhere, glowing around.
“Have you really not been clubbing?”
“No, not really. Not much at all.”
There’s cigar smoke outside. And espresso. Drinks inside. People everywhere. Romantic beaches wander listlessly along roads and through alleyways, perch on forgotten steps, and wanderers watch themselves in gilted mirrors, wink at shadows, marvel at the shapeliness of their own noses breathing wistful spirits.
The night goes down a beautiful, healthy young drain, past gods and godesses blinking between places, waves pushing, birds slowly singing morning tunes for headaches, confessions. And all these people want are their friends.

To Muse

Fiction, Rakehell, Romance

My poem is you on that hill in France, and their breaths mingling with those of ancient Cathars that drift on the breeze like so many wizards on magic carpets, spreading unknown secrets to unknown passers-by searching for mountains.
My poem is Peruvian crags, broken sheepfolds, dusty books whose pages turn at ghostly hands, responding to the stare of unseen eyes. Their dead dedications living eternally.
Lips on coffee cups forgetting sticky soft reflections on the enamel, rose dreams of romance in a dark and waking world. Eyes that explore faces to avoid eyes and eyes to avoid faces and eyes with souls like velvet cushions.
My poem is two people lazing on a jungle bough with sunglasses and vests. An isolated day on a beach, in a dream city, where lives are made and broken and seen and ignored.
My poem is an English teacher. Sam Feathers crying lascivious tears at Arcadian shepherds, the regency chair at the front of the class talking of its myriad masters, novel man dancing round disruptions and a doctor talking tearaways with the vegan lioness whilst the sun kisses their garden table and I sit and I sit and I sit and I sit.
My poem is untold stories is walls of words and loving sentiments is decisions made in stone to be despaired, is comfortable shoes beneath the viewing plane. The stars of night and the shades of day, the couple who cannot help but hold hands. The moment of union forgotten.
My poem is trees and trees and trees You. Sit. And. See. Me. Out. Of. The. Corner. Of. Your. Eye. My poem is the silence that speaks. That licks the wild honey pie. Chalk figures masking silhouettes, bass beats of bloody red purple hearts sucking and pumping. Caves of memorial emotion and fleeting feelings flying succour across seas to rougher shores. Fleshy warmth. Head that opens and rays out. Born from a tree imprisoned in ice, travelled through time and exuding life. My poem is a will to you of a nightime moment of pondering songs
It is
I’m gonna sleep now.

For Jess


Outside snow drifts by to the tune of Matchstick Men. Like a motion picture superimposed on a still background, seen through a still foreground. It amazes me how the window keeps out so much cold and lets in so much warmth.
The snow is falling.
The skies are falling piece by piece, bit by bit.
Look up and see the white shroud collapsing onto us.
It’s said that some of the ancestors were afraid of the sky falling on their heads. What if our heads fell into the sky?
Drifting with the snow along silent streets, past icy caps and as I see the grass it slows. And the trees. Dark brown boughs with powdery leaves of white, like peculiar moss. The moss grows on the North side, they say. I see the glittering snow like little diamonds, like dainty and soft raindrops dusting down from the canopy. On the floor the old, dying falls from the branches refrain from curling and instead lie open, their features lit by twinkling stars: they are something from a painting brought to life.
The scene is not dead.
Robins, sparrows, small fliers and squirry squirrels are gliding under arches or dancing in white fields – seemingly softer ice rinks – and sugary clouds erupt to mark the passage, or the entrance, of the birds.
Somewhere a slender stream flows along a lane of saplings, filled with darts of fish and carrying damp ducklings to their patient mothers.
You stand amongst the trees, overlooking the small valley up on the crest of a small hill.
The snow is falling like particles of god’s skin, melting into the landscape and the creatures and making them sacred, covering them in blessed blankets.
I see you as a patch of colour in the whiteness, a ruddy and warming rose. And the blessed and the red burn like a healing fire.
And I’m looking down the slope of the ground, past the frozen muds with their icy pools, into the widening valley, hearing the rush of the water, the calm collapse of the sky settling on earth.
I see you cresting a hill of verdant green.
I see white.
Trees enclosed in a bursting blizzard of snow.
And I’m falling.
Warmth back through the window.
I return with ice on my boots.
The door is locked.
I am snowed-in.

*                                           *                                     *

Reblogged from, now in stasis.



I’m standing on a ledge. Don’t look down.

Falling in love is something I probably don’t know much about, but I can feel free to enjoy as it happens. Like skydiving. Like plunging to your doom and you only remember the parachute when you’re half way there. Or when someone tells you.

When you consider every step so very carefully, it becomes difficult to move. A game of chess. It becomes different when you do it to time: so much less of a logical thrill and more the pleasure of a burning strategy, a plan to outmatch rather than carefully prove or disprove. A game should not be a thing of abstract theories, it’s said. A game should mimic life.

Looking down, looks as if I’m going to try falling for a change. Maybe someone will catch me.

Thinking as I do, I find out many things. But I can still become tired, lethargic, like the old masters of old. Thinking as I do, miss out many things. In considering the one linear sequence, I lose the others. Lateral gets great praise, I hear.

If I look at my feet, put my hands to my sides, I’ll start to slip forwards, or backwards.

I don’t like that. I’d rather know what I’m doing. I’d rather jump.

I don’t want to skid on ice, I don’t want to wince over the edge, I don’t want to be pushed – if I’m pushed I’ll try to stay. That you can’t do. Look down.

The lights and streams and colours and winds and the air, the air for miles it seems, the space is thick with the air.

I’m going to fall once I’ve jumped, and if I fall, maybe someone will catch me.

Before I go too far.

Without a parachute.

I’m going to jump.

Reblogged from, now in stasis.