Saturday, 21 January 2012

On Moles On The Fence At Nebo

We saw your soldiers’ ranks, your
desecrated corpses. We saw you
hung, sleek, one by one,
a dirge on a your own stave.
You were such small trophies,
so small, each one. Each one
a glove of dark, smooth silk.
Each one a sorrow of its own,
head height to our child’s eyes.
There was no triumph in this conquest.
No triumph in your sad spade hands,
your aborted tails or quiet eyes.

Now I imagine Goldsworthy meeting Hirst.
Then only sadness in a wind-struck place.

Sunday, 15 January 2012

The Smoker

We will take it from the exhale.
A single drift, a caress of your lips
and the soft pass of silk that billows.
The bloom of orgasm widening in the air.
Your lips part in the afterthought of a kiss.
The afterthought of all that is in you
widening in the air.

There is a dilation inside you.
Your pupils become pools,
your lungs expand. And
your shoulders fall, the strength
at bay. Your chair is an oyster,
your chair a resting place. Your head
tilts back and smoke rises. It is
no signal of distress, no call to arms,
but an incense for your peace.

Monday, 9 January 2012

Milky Way

It is on days like this that I drink too much tea
and create a whirlpool of my stomach as the lactose settles,
and all you can say is uhuh, guhuh, your nakedness an entirety
and a subtle threat of chaos to be unleashed.
Half the world is out of your reach, your up-stretched hands
starfish, seekers, your palms maps that have not yet been written.
You describe the world as guhuh, and I drink tea and find
a galaxy threaded inside, an opening of my thoughts,
a settling of my tired eyes and star after star to string for you.
It will be years before you can understand. Astronomy. Navigation.
Myth. Hydrogen blazing in spheres and atoms out of reach.
Now you are a mountain climber, a daredevil. You can say, a-gone.
You would toss away your yolk-yellow duck and reach for
handles, books, and dip your bread in daddy’s tea and suck the liquor.
You would toss aside anything that does not suit, a king kong in the city
and your starfish hands would settle only on the inappropriate.
your havoc is mellowed with honey. The curtains are a forest,
a hideout and a shield, and I sit with my tea, and no place to hide.