Grow.
A new seedling twists
about,
Under a cover of dark,
Searching upwards for
freedom,
Pressing firmly to
light.
Guillotine.
Shallow eyes
Look at me hollow
mask
A sense of deja-vu
A "sense-macabre"
As the grey head cools
In the fool's fruit
basket
Of aristocrat-like
heads
No question
To reply to
Tisket tasket
Smiling basket
See those eyes.
Ask the killer if he
knows
(Strange how we assume
its 'he')
Just how far it is to
go.
The Gypsy King.
Female cat on the yard
wall,
Surveys the suitors,
The gypsy toms with
vagabond smiles,
And deigns to sing a
love song,
The chorus, banal,
Offends her delicate
sense.
Gypsy King alights and
croons,
The lady is charmed,
And moonlight starts
the dance.
Oh, the games to play
with
The emotions of kings,
Of ladies, and even
Of gypsies.
Gypsy Marsh.
Standing in a dawn
mist,
Down by Gypsy Marsh,
Half-dreams of your
last kiss,
In times I'd call
harsh.
Hollow glow through the
trees,
A chill on a fevered
brow.
The child takes in all
he sees,
Bows down to the holy
cow.
Witness to the virgin
light,
Detract from mental
pain,
Resists well the urge
for flight,
In the valley of the
slain.
As the faery beams then
take hold,
And the new age is
begun,
Twenty-four hours in
the cold,
Relieved by the morning
sun.
But observation on the
edge of life,
As the swans survey the
land,
May send inward chaos
rife,
Destroy the urge to
understand.
Half-dreaming of unreal
days,
Abroad this land so
harsh,
I found I believe in
what she says,
Standing in Gypsy
Marsh.
Hands. 1.
Hands are those of another,
Older, perhaps more mature,
Retain, illusory suggestions girl,
(The rear of a young boy)
As feminine as forgotten wiles,
Angular skeleton.
Hands and nails torn, worn to harsher,
Less lovely perhaps, those of industry,
Those of academie, later of hashish,
Later still, to still my shoulders,
Neck to knead, and then to feed,
To weave new spell fabric.
Transparent skin to reveal what within ?
No hard glass surface, nor vacant stares,
No blood perhaps, blue lines direct,
Old attentions mature, suggestive of age,
And hawk-like precisions of touch,
To touch through these layers.
Hands. 2.
Nails and hands torn, worn to harsher
Harsher progress, slow-time in metal,
Where once graced vellum, and cartridge,
Reveals cartilage, and hashish histories.
Hands. 3.
Around the glass, her hands,
Strangling occasional whisky drops to lips.
Idly settle, blue-bottle distraction,
Nerves caress cheap-bar-crystal.
Flicker in visible veins,
While toying with these mental games.
Flit to wing, upstarted, to hawk a fag,
To lighter, dead, to match, then drag.
Hands older than they should be,
Holding the tar talisman.
One returns to drape more energies on,
More whisky, or was it rum ?
Haunted.
Haunted by your picture,
Nothing new, just an aged thought,
Kind of "What if..?"
Kind of moment of weakness.
Kind of you to share with me
Bits of your life, and loves.
When you finished with her,
Why pick on me ?
Why breed insanity ?
Why make love to me ?
Man against woman,
Fool against her,
Not much left in common,
Which sex do you prefer ?
Dance sex, and drink love,
Come with me, down above,
And we will explode,
Not too far to overload.
Kind of shared dream that died,
Kind of bedsit, where we lied.
Haunt me still,
Nostalgic overkill,
But memories fade to this,
The sweetness of your kiss.
"Hello, is ____
there ? What...? Oh, it's me,
I'm in _____ and
thought I'd try to get in touch
While I was here. Oh,
right....I see,
I'm sorry to trouble
you, perhaps you could say
Just say, I called."
The tight pulse in your
heavily drugged arteries
Belies the cold school
room floors,
The library
The hall
The stage, God, the
stage.
Hey ! That was
something, wasn't it ?
Hello Scotland, Hello
James,
Hello smoke, Hello
James,
We make some team, huh
?
Your jealous eyes,
Reflected in this half
whisky glass.
My letters are all gone
Your replies litter my
room
Like confetti gone mad.
With sure promises of
uncompromising.
When you go to the
church
Will you tell yourself
I called ?
Hindsight
Really, looking through
hind eyes,
With full twenty, and
everything,
Its like kind of, more
than apparent,
Kind of obvious,
I should have
Realised.
Smelled coffee, and
backed out quick,
Instead, another kiss,
And hard earned, now
passionate,
Regret.
This realisation
arrives hindways,
Full detail, and
obvious passion,
Its like, kind of, more
than twenty,
Obvious regret,
Hard earned everything,
Full kiss.
Weak High
At a weak, but strangely high
moment :
It all came vaguely apparent,
All kind of nearly clear,
Some kind of self-perspective,
I needed you here.
But Swansea, Devon, the Lakes,
and Wales,
All passes into my focus,
unfocussed sight,
All the "not-to-try"s,
and the "tried-but-failed"s,
On this rainy, dreary, stoning
night.
The hour, the dope, or beer,
Couldn't quite expel the fear,
Couldn't make you come to me,
Didn't feel like, completely
free.
The "weak" is the
fatigue,
Caused by, whatever, or not,
Brings me in a different league,
Where to touch is hot.
The "high" is
successful return,
To seek, and to try to learn,
To experience life, for what its
worth,
More than a wet night, in
Holmfirth.
Time thereabouts, or nearly so,
Now its time for me to go.
At a strangely high, but weak
moment :
