Mourning Wood

Earth to earth, ashes to ashes,

He scans the bereaved for available gashes,

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

Grief itself inflames his lust,

Black is such a slimming colour –

How’s your father? (And your mother?)

Tears lend such a delicate hue,

(Come now, this day’s about you)

‘She’s laid on the wake and made me a sandwich,

Surely that’s licence to make her my bitch?’

The pain on her face lends a peculiar grace,

Silent permission to give an embrace.

Was he very close to the deceased?

Not at all – just there to get her on her knees.

(Come, now – don’t play hard to get,

He knows a way that’ll make you forget)

Oh, it’s sad that you’ve lost your spouse

But honestly speaking, aren’t you a little aroused?

He’s there to fill the hole that’s been left,

To observe the ritual and her breasts –

They’ve laid her husband to rest in his plot, Now he’s straining to rest in that slot.

Death becomes her, it has to be said, He’s not resting ’til he gets her to bed,

He’s intoxicated by the scent of death in the air,

As he gently strokes her face and her hair,

(There, now – doesn’t that feel nice?)

He’s determined to please her once if not twice,

‘Don’t worry about what they may say,

Your husband has gone and is in his grave’

She leans in to him and it feels so good

As he leans into her

With his mourning wood.

 

Words and images (c) of the original artist 2015 and may not be reproduced without permission

Words Like Strings

His fingers play words like strings

And when his scribing sings

It’s like a siren on the rocks,

And every comma shocks

Me to the core –

The perfection inspires awe,

The constructions are a pure

Testament to his genius

He is the nemesis of Aesclepius

The feelings inflicted can never heal,

And each syllable is so real –

Like black magic cast on a page –

A page, a sage, a gauge,

Letters to shape an age,

Subtlety that needs no cage

Already executing perfect restraint

In a divine refrain

That leaves echoes of sensations on your soul –

Fragments that plant themselves and grow,

Images that fall and tickle your existence like snow –

Belief is frozen

Suspended and broken,

Taken somewhere else

As you crave shelf after shelf –

The untapped mine

Of a golden mind –

Sublime, divine, eternal prime.

‘Does it make it ghastly to read?’ he asked:

How could I even word the unsurpassed

Class

Of what I had read?

The pinnacle of lyrical pleasure inside my head?

And he plays words like strings with his fingers,

And the echo of fascination lingers and lingers.

All words and images (c) of original artist and may not be reproduced without permission 2015.

For Show

Your tortured soul

Is just for show

I know

That you perform sorrow

Like the back end of a pantomime widow,

Waiting for the audience

To applaud your insubordinance –

It’s all a pretence.

(c) Words and images the property of the original artist 2015

Now You, Then Me

NOW YOU, THEN ME

So now you know how it really feels,

To be given permission to go off and be free,

To never hear the words ‘God, please don’t leave me.’

Because being possessive and clingy just isn’t PC,

Because to admit this thing and commit to this fling

Just wouldn’t be hip,

Your fangirls and boys wouldn’t tag it as rad

Or comment ‘I dig’

And the reality of our freaky bond

Would no longer be hid.

And if you ever actually did

Let them know

Or even dared to show

Me then it really would defy convention,

And strip away pretensions.

You’d be the hipster outside the box

The One with the really neat fox,

But you don’t believe in it that much,

To go round admitting it and such,

So go ahead and be free,

Chase your own tail and dreams,

And if you ever need me

I’ll be back here in reality.

If you love someone let them go

But what if they don’t though –

Love you?

Does it work then too? Will it work for you?

What’s good for the goose is good for the gander,

So now I’ll make my own propaganda,

And make believe I really am the star,

That you clearly already think that you are.

I must have missed you getting famous

So I must apologise,

I must have missed everyone judging us,

Before my very eyes.

I had forgotten that they mattered, you see,

I had thought that it was just about you and me,

So when you’re alone out there among the masses and life is hard

By all means send me a postcard,

But don’t scribble ‘Wish you were here’s

Because I would have been

If not for your fear

Of chipping your polished veneer

And letting someone real get near

My dear.

(c) Words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission.

 

Flame

Flame

A fiercely gentle flame,

Not to scold but to hold,

Not to burn but to warm –

An old flame,

One that weathered the storm,

Ashes just beginning to appear

Somewhere among the embers,

Made up of things remembered,

Settling among stories, tributes and blame,

Did you ever hear the quiet roar of a single flame?

Did you ever think it such a shame,

That you didn’t get to hear it more often?

That the quiet roar could probably soften

Even the harshest blow,

As you thawed yourself in its auburn glow,

And added some kindling from your flammable soul,

Ignite the heart and let it roam

Free

As it should be.

(c) All words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission

A Day Out

A Day Out

An escape from the unceasing pressure,

To enjoy a whole day at leisure,

To savour the mouthful you didn’t cook,

Sit on a train and read a book,

To watch a weird and wonderful world go by,

So very many things to fantasize

About

On a nice day out:

What would it be like to put down roots here?

How would it feel if that man called you ‘dear’?

What became of the last person who didn’t mind the gap

Between the train and the platform’s edge?

What’s hiding behind that hedge?

And then there is so much to explore,

Brand new things to like,loathe or adore,

A vigorous workout for the senses,

A mini-break from all of life’s messes,

The thrill of being ever so slightly lost,

And the temptation to call your boss

And apologise but you’re not coming back,

You’ve started a new life 17 stops down the track,

But when the sun starts to fade,

All those dreamy plans you’ve made

Start wagging their fingers like a cross Aunt

Telling you reasons you shouldn’t and can’t,

So you pick up a trinket or two

To remind you of a very different you,

That you got to know for only a day,

And hope the memory will linger and stay

Because you much preferred her that way –

The me that you met for that day.

(c) All words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission

Things

Things

She takes a cigarette from the elegant case

And inhales a bygone era and not just the taste,

The feather boa hanging over her bed,

Beckons Hollywood glamour into her head,

The faux fur jacket slung over one shoulder

Is the only thing around to hold her,

The individually hand-painted glass

Holds the liquid dreams of her past,

The fashionable boots on her tired feet

Help to make her feel a little more complete,

And her shiny new phone

Is her only link to an abandoned home.

(c) Words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission.

Rootless

Wallflowers see everything but are rarely seen…It doesn’t make them any less splendid or bright just because nobody notices them though. In the same way that firework that goes off too late still creates the same magic and beauty as the ones in the display, wallflowers do too.

Rootless

I’m the tumbleweed

That blows through your village on Halloween,

I’m the firework that went off too late to be seen,

The magic that works behind the scenes,

The one that sells ice-creams in the intervals of your dreams.

I am the book nobody reads to the end,

I am the ‘not in need’ friend,

I am the anthem from someone else’s headphones,

The one you would have called on but didn’t think would be at home…

And I wasn’t but I was indoors on my own.

Nobody will notice but the sea,

When I blow away with the breeze

And take my notes back from the melody,

That nobody hears until I’ve gone –

A tuneless song.

Who was she?

That strange, quiet one?

(c) All words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission

A Day in the Night of

A dreamy surreal recollection of a blurred connection on an astral plane as night drifted into morning.

A Day in the Night of…

She muttered some clutter into his dreams

And tiptoed amongst eggshells split at the seams,

Empty and purged of their cargo

They knew how far to go

To make things new and right.

And he slept on through the light –

The dawn chorus his lullabies,

Seeing the world clearly through shut eyes,

Soul and spirit mischievous spies

Eager to see his journey unfold,

Desperate to hear what truths he’d be told.

He delighted in the golden respite,

While she rid herself of all that might

Hold her hostage.

Every last ounce of rottage:

The terrible lies

The sleepless nights

The flashbacks and knives

The untimely deaths

The self imposed punishments

The poison ingested

The rats that infested

The twice flooded cottage.

The half felt loves

And wholly ruinous catastrophes,

And she muttered as she stitched in the clutter at the seams,

Working away to mend broken dreams.

And he slept on through the light

And she became free.

(c) All words and images belong to the original artist and may not be reproduced without permission