July 12, 2012 at 7:16 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , )

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
with its pretty smile
in the dark bathroom
of abysmal atrocity

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
until fearful nightmares
are happy adventures
riding free in a fast car

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
to remove indelible stains
tattered sanity and
the smell of strangers

I will scrub this pink
striped dress
to repair its innocence
reinstate its torn trust
and drown the sound

of crying


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July 11, 2012 at 8:01 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , )

Through barred gate
past angry dogs and wet dreams
through lecherous forests
and the need for affirmation
I stumbled to the tower.

My broken leg
hanging at a desperate angle
taking necessary steps
lugging heavy fantasies
I reached her level.

Forgetting to knock
failing to catch my breath
as it howled in castigation
I broke down and shut the door
checking for wise women.

Sighing heavily
at my monotonous predictability
she unrolled her plaited hair
and shot me a bored smile.
She knew the ropes.

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Train of Thought

July 7, 2012 at 1:42 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , )

On a daisy train
curling southwards
hung with industrial injuries
graffiti’d ghettos
and hacked off cityscapes

I want to hold the hand
of a mobile tragedy
who melts down a tissue
with catastrophic tears
over a spilled life.

Prospectors in shiny shoes
and trousers with ears
talk down marriage
berate chicken nuggets
and disturb sensibilities

pausing only briefly
as a ticketless traveller
is discreetly sidelined
and conducted towards
a less selubrius journey.

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July 5, 2012 at 2:18 pm (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , , )

Political game
Pawns set up to be taken.
Why do we still play?

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July 4, 2012 at 9:52 am (Poems) (, , , , , , , , , , , , , , )

Climb into this chamber
of reflective domestic surfaces
where your thin girl lies
with translucent skin;
needing to breathe.

Old roses glow
upon blue veins; roots,
stems and features flower
upon a pink pillow. Pins
prevent movement
beyond permitted parameters.

Listen outside your barred
summer window, to sparrows
eating pea shoots and
gooseberries refusing to soften,
as obstinate rain falls.

Fall through the thoughts
of your girl who courts inadequacy and
barely controls the urge for
flight, often alighting
on chairs next to dark
denying eyes, hands fluttering.

Disliking draughts,
you stopped her dance today,
that way you have of
whispering, shifting into
graceful rumba hold, to
pas des deux her from the room.

Bit by bit you have
snipped blue dazzling wings.
Poor attempts at annihilation;
each cut recalling the agony of
her birth, and worse,
the pain of subjugation.

Frightened, feel her
twisting, pulling ’til
your body aches, then
begin to build associative pictures
from tiny be-curtained roses.
You taught her this, once.

Remember early indulgences,
childhood nonsense, spinning round,
she laughed and ran with you,
indigo wings breaking
household things in real joy.

Hours slip towards evening
and she takes and shapes you;
shadow miasmas crossing moving lips
on a vague sense of hope.

Deep inside your broken mind
beset with guilt and consequences
is something carefully creased.
From your unwrapped imagination
she draws two gifts;
a single red tipped match,
and minuscule glass paper, folded once.

Once she had a dream of being alive,
and she was born, damp wings
stretched and held,
innately patient, biding your time.
Wings dried,
but bold beauty bore weights
of conscience and responsibility
like baubles of lead.

Looking past dread
more potent than death,
with a swift shift of consciousness,
with will suppressed,
as manifestation of choices never made;
with freedom thwarted
and joy never realised,
you strike the match
and as the ash of your blue butterfly rises –
you watch the world turn.

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