MAELSTROM
Hidden by the shadow of a high August tree
lost in a garden of enchantment.
and a child's fear
evident because of infant confusion.
A hint of a tear
smeared across the cheek of my former self.
Wonderment unleashed on me,
the real world beckoning, the cruel world
threatening.
A small face of innocence
peering from behind the tall black railings of learning.
Childhood spirit, where are you now
with your flowing locks
and intent to listen eyes?
I will always remember you
for that first fragile kiss with me
when we were nine.....
..... and Julie, my poor dead friend,
How are the angels treating you
now that you are one of them
gliding in the misty fields of unknown solace
reaping the corn of eternity?
Today I saw your tree,
the one we planted in your memory
to mark your courage, to mark your bravery.
I felt your breath among the blooms,
I felt your breath among the blooms.
The playground is a quiet place
so cold without you, so sad without you.
Small birds set down on the sundial.
I think I hear you whisper,
I want to hear you whisper!
The world my love, is a strange place
full of meaning and yet, no meaning.
There are people out to destroy me
from the hypocrisies of mischievous conversation.
..... and love?
Love is a demeaning slave
fresh from the ashes of World Horror.
It blooms from the tragedies,
thrives
in its destinies
only to be knocked off its pedestal
by the unfaithful partner that true love
demanded to trust.
Collectors compile their morbid dossiers:
News cuttings from the day's immoral behaviour.
Photos of child murderers peer out from
National Press pages
reminding us that no child
is safe in the bosom of our (dare I say it)
green and pleasant land.
I have abandoned my conscience
and marched naked into the arms of an unknown destiny.
She loves me? Yes!
She loves me? Not!
I am alone
in the sanctuary of a long, cool beer
staring aimlessly into the lost fathoms of my glass.
Happy when I was never happy. Basking
in my own confusion.
'Free love' lies bleeding from its own deflections
carrying out the emotional suicide of consequence.
I am the shadow of this love, this orchestrated hype.
Though I am here in my solid form
no matter what I am!
Clouds move away from the sun.
Dew hangs from laburnums
all along the river, sparkling
in psychedelic sunlight, splashing into the silver ebb
as the current passes.
Bottles scheme on the flow carrying messages of distress,
each one with its own secret,
its own mandate
ready to blast reason high from the water.
The sky is as black as religion
dragging the funerals of politicians
across on its clouds. Here, is the perpetual vision,
the ideal storm,
the perfect maelstrom!
Some enchanted evening beneath the lights
of the city, I smile into the eyes
of a fantasised lover. I am well in this oblivion
where I seek my purpose and experience
the arrival of a soul.
Thank you, madam
for being so beautiful. I love you
for such tactics.
..... and so, it is I begin to spiral
in personal crisis after the ornamental stake
is forged. I stagger in new directions,
hating and rebelling, a warrior
of my own heart. Such is the dream,
the pain becomes a vision, society is the same,
strain shows on the face of all I pass.
Back from the 'wars' and the 'revolution'
we sit in attic rooms and discuss the ideal fate.
There is an element of hope at last
amid the chit-chat. Optimism booms from its proud
red corner, smashing gleefully the Capitalist's
hungry paws.
Speaking well in defensive circles,
a little pretentious, a little shy. My ingenious lover
speaks of all things even on the pillow
by my side. I at last have found my refuge,
I at last have found my peace
but the corrupted world
will keep on turning
inviting me back into its vicious circle.
Peace is a haven
between a hundred burning cities
surviving guiltily on the balance
of power.
The content of the newspaper is strong.
Subway placards emphasise a busker's song.
There is death where delusion counts its cost.
Street Romeo terminated on a housewife's bed.
Husband lurking still with gun, suburban killing
in council semi. Scandal brings
an eerie silence.
My mind is an abstract full of empty cans.
My conscience returns
and shimmers beneath the stars.
Where is love? As I sit down
and try to assess the glory of it all.
In Happy Street
lovers are heard to admit their love.
Warm bodies in a cold environment,
their limbs reaching into vines,
hero and heroine reaching as one.
Worship of the purple heart.
Sincerity
forging as they kiss
the long lingering accent of moments
his beard, her hair
entangled as they sow the all-important seed.
I am sitting on a grass verge
of a road into a magnificent sunset
a hitch-hiker's guide to the nearest pub
Swans float down the August river
justifying their presence with easy grace,
symbols of freedom
defying the final act of the sun.
Beneath our favourite street lamp
I am alone. It is a different year,
a different season. You are far away
in newfound anonymity.
In my mind, there is a tiny memory,
I see you dancing in the sacred poppy fields,
rain on your cheek,
sun on your brow.
Your pale white body
melting
into my heart
and a thousand most remarkable dreams.
Something drives me to the brink of insanity,
from the core of uncertainty.
Life in the fast lane isn't so fast.
The gutter leprechauns
throw me their wisdom as I, myself
throw in ambition's towel.
I look out from my window
in Hotel Curious,
I wonder how the street survives,
everything like clockwork
fast and flowing
the audacity of rain
intermittent between traffic.
On the edge of town
the disease is spreading. Immorality
supersedes innocence to engage
seedy sexual challenge. Doorways
whisper as loners and misfits stagger,
a lady of the night, her lost beauty
left alone.
..... and who is alone this damp and dreadful night,
watching the dark horizon, searching for
answers, considering maybe spectacular
ways to die? And where is the Samaritan
who volunteers to save you as you drift
back to unacceptable sober state?
Step on to the stage my sweet and cherished lover.
Tell the world that every war is won.
Threaten them with peace, it's easy,
yes, so easy - lover
before you gouge another silence
from the issue of your womb.
We are running to follow
the exact path of the sun. Angels with clipped wings
jumping into the light. We are the ones
in society who simply do not matter.
We have spoken. We have been frank.
I have dreamt about your body. It is
my only purpose now. Let's stay awake all night
and forget the bomb!
The horizon glows with an eerie light
as I collapse into you with all my body.
There is music between the rainstorms.
Buses hurry out to the dawn.
Poppies grow in clusters in a time-warped field.
We have taken umbrage
and are lost with one another
beneath the sun.
There are days when I can love the world
in wispy, milky summer,
days when I can love
and tie you with the chain
that is the token of our binding.
Illusion casts its spell of impermanence,
nothing seems clear anymore.
Governments control our lives,
we are bondaged in red tape. Today
I slung your virtue to the wall.
It's not your fault, it's NOT your fault!
I must apologise for my angry Mr Punch syndrome.
Sweet love, Oh sweet petal of my anguished heart.
I can wait for nothing in your presence
but your love.
Raindrops threaten teasingly into middle age.
I am humbled. I am still.
I want to kiss your bosom,
I want to touch your heart!
Depression unmasks me.
I am alone in a room
where I have only memory to talk to.
You fucking whore!
Where are you when I need your comfort,
your soft, pale, lust-worthy skin
and the endless kisses of your divine attention?
I want you now, back out of history
with your intelligence and intellect, I want you
with your philosophies and love,
immense bottles of wine
stolen from your father's drawer.
I want you HERE in this precise moment
naked from your shoulders down
complete with the Mediterranean beads
of your last holiday
and the lipstick you always wore for beauty.
…Those beads are buried in the sand
where hope lies buried. I stand or sit
on an imaginary shoreline. The waves
eat away at my heart. Destiny
turns on the tide of commitment.
Good fortune shines with the sun.
There is nothing illusory in this
but at last, I have refound ambition
amid the dreams returning.
Tired swallows come back from a long
migration through the eye of the storm. Ships
bounce on an incoherent harbour. I
see myself in a newfound destiny
with a newfound purpose. The harbour
of thought is glittering with the salvage
of prizes.
Nuclear fall-out threatens from the Ukraine,
yet we are spared spectacular accidental
death. We have been warned!
We have been warned!
I speak to you
with a yellow tongue as we come cheek
to cheek in the candle-light of our last
supper. Oh, the night is our epitaph
and your face is a worried gravestone.
All life flows into an unaccountable
jet stream. We all take off, but where
do we land again?
Oh, sweet and powerful angel, immortal
guardian of my personal fire, what method
saves me from The World Grave
and such continuous mournings?
1985
SEPARATE LIVES
This morning, I awoke
and felt you beside me despite the distance
I went down to the river
where the Spring sunrise flickered and reflected
in a seasonal collaboration on the cold water
I saw your face in the reflection – smiling
and I wanted you more than ever
I wanted to explain whatever we have is more than love
but then your image vanished as the sun passed a cloud
and I thought to myself – ‘fate is a desperate thing’
if fate indeed is what it is, but it drives its force between us
and then brings us together
Your eyes are the perfect diamonds that enlighten my soul
leading me to the absolute point of love’s perception
Sometimes I am lost without you, but I am whole
The mere thought of you unravels everything I feel
both spiritual and physical
so much that I have to write it down
not as a poem
but as something that has to be written
I love you
and I know that it really is more than love
My whole body reaches out
towards the image of your beauty
I cannot explain it
There is a hidden meaning somewhere in all of this
This is our life
and yet
they are such separate lives
1994
GOING DOWN
You were bound in leather and red cloth
you were the High Priestess
of the makeshift boudoir
You were the vehicle of attention
a raw ramp to explore
Waiting with immense anticipation
with your clitoris out ready
for my tongue
So, I wrestled frantically between your thighs
and you called it cunnilingus
and I called it going down
In the end, it was really nothing
unless indeed I saw you smile
Oh, High Priestess, you were the one
as I surrendered and succumbed
to the rhythm of your song
2023 (Out-take from 'In the Shadow of Marc Bolan')
RANDOM INQUISITIONS
How will you read these thoughts?
How will you respond?
Will you have your own take on things?
Will you go away and write them down somehow,
or simply talk to friends about your next nice cup of tea?
Do you eat meat to fuel your brain?
Do you only eat fish or simply stick to vegetables?
Are you an artichoke?
Do you feel confident in your skin?
Have you ever felt confident in your skin?
Have you ever held court with an audience of over two people?
What day is it? Is it relevant?
Is this the beginning of a new dawn?
Is the indigo sunrise between the trees a sign?
Is the robin in the birdbath a sign?
Is poetry relevant?
Do you understand the therapeutic use of poetry,
and how do you implement it?
Do you write poetry?
What is the sense in all of this?
Do you believe in fate or destiny?
So where will the journey end?
Is it a journey?
Was it ever begun?
Have you ever hunted for ghosts?
Do you believe in spirit?
Have you ever prised open a coffin lid only to find yourself?
Have you ever laid flowers on the wrong grave?
Who was the faceless priest who read you your last rites?
At what time did you emerge from your worst nightmare?
Why does everyone go through a period where they have to ‘find’ themselves?
Is it the change of life, or is it just a pretentious act of self-indulgence?
Do we really need to convince ourselves about who we are?
Who is the Grim Reaper?
What parts of life and death does he control?
There must be an end to all of this. What is the end?
2011