I’m but a sprout in love,
My knees deep in the realm of personal myths and private misgivings.
A timber sprawled between me and another figure full of someness.
A kitch builds itself and treads to see where I sleep.
In the light-aired night,
The crow smiles me off and cuts me lengthways.
I lay there like the land, my cadence slow,
Full of pain, full of plain.
I’m not strong enough, not at this pace,
Especially not in June.
In the thick-aired night,
The lover and the bay kissing in a withdrawing roar
Shatter me, even when I’m watching from afar.
I feel it so…
Her secrets to me are facts,
Especially in June.
I, who am mostly small
And was supposed to be just insignificant,
Was never much of a face.
So weird being changed
By the contagious childhood prayers.
It's been a while since I feared birth
And the masonry gargoyles.
It's been a while since I've resolved
And self-inscribed into the archways.
Screw being wasted mid-scream,
Screw being wasted at all.
After this I always failed to enter looking for the ending.
Maybe I was born wrong,
But in any case I was born.
My eyes are furnace-red.
Was I born to stand down or am I being tugged and dragged?
One hand rives the other as I write a common poem,
But at least the birds are freed and fed.
I am part of the bunch that never stopped migrating.
If the wind is warm and wraps us hard,
We fight through songs of grief
So that our flight goes far.
We become sharper
And the pain that would before wound us
Now falls in the form of rain.
I checked the language of the mountain
To see if I still was pronouncing it the right way.
It was the same, I was the same,
But sharper and further away.
Out and greenly afar
I am wind-bellowed.
Under my dreams possessed,
I am an only barren meadow.
The sand drops on everything
And I smile at the rest.
I am home to beaches of stone
Under my dreams unguessed.
I will not stop at your hand,
I will not stop at the Edge.
My feet will be there staking,
My feet will make me stand.
Now that I'm off the thick zest
And into a buzzing mortal scheme,
I take scissors to my seams
And stand under my dreams undressed.
That I may cease to nothingness on the shore
Of my unreflecting love,
That I may never live to be more than the high-piled books
Inside my teeming brain,
That I may forget to sail the still chords
Of your lulling eyes,
That I may strengthen my darkness divine.
Bloody hell, the sky is clear
And I'm here to write poetry.
When sound doesn't do it for me anymore,
I do something for it in return.
Sometimes with wet hair,
Other times with wet fingers.
I used to call myself the sailor of my feelings,
But haven't done much of that since,
So I don't think the liquid justifies the inkling.
(unfinished due to thoughts about sinking)
To the light of day my sadness seems ridiculous, impossible,
A tale of introspective boredom.
The sun shines a bright light inside me and everything becomes white and indistinguishable.
Joy is but a star
Drowned in its own flaming crest,
A white wind spread across my window.
Without light I am shade and doubt,
I think about truth and expound it through to the gorge
Never to be seen again.
Our Sun, who art in Heaven.
I'm a foot soaker
But still unaware of the process by which things become grey.
I'm a foot soaker so I speculate
The ray hitting the sail and taking it
From creak to river, from river to sea.
Colour and life dissolving in the late afternoon
Into a vaccum.
How am I still unaware of the process by which things become grey
At least one time a day?
Enough Is Enough is leaving my body in a long sustained shiver,
While Each Gulp jumps out and saves my life.
I don't even have the tears anymore,
I might be Deprived.
I thought I was Done,
but I still had it in me.
I thought there was an easy way because I still had it in me.
Sometimes I feel defeated.
My hands in a mighty stretch take my feet
And I in a circle hug the earth and attempt to eat it.
I’ve tasted all the dirts,
And I can tell them apart with almost no effort.
My mouth knows the friability of a dusty road
From the smoothness of a tired desert
And confronts them both,
Because there’s magic in living up close.
- A poem for JR