I stand under a long grey sky
and wish that it were cold again.
There are promises on the wind
that never get fulfilled,
only made, shaded,
and blown away.
I wish that it would rain,
at least,
and wash away my sins,
but a handful of wishes
under any sky,
if not fulfilled,
look just like lies.
Some days I feel,
minuscule almost,
diminutive certainly.
If not for you
I think I’d fade
like weak, old, jeans.
Just a speck on the horizon,
the vanishing point
in an artists eye.
I shrink myself down
and crawl inside her pocket.
She doesn’t feel me there,
carried through her day.
It’s comforting,
the closeness of the fabric
and the presence of her skin,
so close to mine and warm,
it pacifies me.
I wake up in the palm of her hand
as her eyes slide over me
like the inquisitive fingers of a blind man.
I am an artifact, a pocket relic.
The noise of joy forms scenery around me.
I’ve built walls around myself
from stronger stuff than mirth
that finds me isolated,
and wondering, alone,
what part of me
is shaped by these people?
These shifting, shapeless,
that present all that is
and isn’t much
of who they are,
and all that is
nothing of any substance.
She walks with music in her sole,
a 4/4 swagger in bluegrass jeans.
Her heart beats a salsa
and her eyes talk of tango.
She keeps the time by making it,
takes the lead and let’s you follow.
Her words whisper waltz
but they read like rumba.
No timid, tepid two-step,
her lips are dirty dancers.
A muse, a muse,
give me something I can use.
A wisp of hair,
a scent, perfume.
The sweet caress
of silk and lace.
A summer dress,
a pretty face.
A soft and supple female figure.
A woman I can hold with vigor.
All I want, to be inspired,
to send that shock
that once is fired,
sets ablaze
that cunning spark
that in the night,
the gloom and dark,
will afford some comfort,
peace of mind,
and dare I hope
just might unwind
that tricky, tangled
web of wonders
so entwined
with all the blunders
jostling heavy through my brain,
that woeful mess
that causes pain
from all it’s inarticulence,
that finds me left
with no defence,
but hope,
but longing,
but self abuse,
when all I need
is just a muse.
Light, skin, the smell of sweat,
the taste of salted lips.
Hollow things and bloated
baobabs and overripe fruits,
fallen, split and spilt,
coursing remnants and empty,
still, touché to all things
between two parties,
flesh touching, cursing,
passing, unannounced,
gone in instances
from insecurities
and now, years later,
wandering allowed,
what’s lost? Only
what ifs and maybes.
Still plenty left unattended,
broken and unmended.
Past has passed
its haunts and harries,
the sun has set,
its light but lingers.
She undresses
in a sure but shy way.
It pleases me to watch
while she twists about
in her modesty.
“Creep,” she says,
through a smile
thrown over her shoulder.
She shrouds her skin,
but her eyes stay naked.
I have memories of you we haven’t made yet.
They’re shaped like dreams
but feel too real.
The colors are different,
they’re intents
that change the way they look.
Layered like sand,
stacked like mountains
draining through my hand,
while I grasp endlessly
at a world that fades
before it’s even made.
I have a dream that I can remember
everything that’s different and better.
Mornings are the hardest.
I have no anchor in reality,
sailing as I’ve been,
upon the seas strange dream.
My mind has wandered
and it takes a while
to corral my errant memory.
I check myself
and make a minute inventory.
It would be easier I think,
some days,
to cut the cords
of consciousness
and drift
I can taste her skin on my lips.
It shines like a light
through a canopy of trees and leaves
breathless whispers on my lips.
I can feel her still,
etched like memories
on my fingertips,
poured into their padded whorls.
My prints, her hips.
That smile, those lips,
that part and pout
and mock my mouth.
Without a word
they whisper,
“Kiss her.”
She scatters affection
like currency to the homeless.
A feast for urchins.
Babe,
she says,
through wan, worn teeth.
Babe,
I love this.
Her love is dry.
There’s nothing there,
a locust skin painted pink
and flung against a crowd.
Babe,
she says,
and something crawls,
akin to skin but not so near me,
crawling still and eerie.
Silvered skin, gleaming red under fluorescent,
spilling still into porcelain stains, pooling in coagulate.
Sickly, slick, sticking substance, splayed,
corner
to
corner.
Saline mingling rivulets, descending, descry intention,
weep without retention, trailing mucky streams.
Rose complexion uninhabited, departs. A blended mask,
red, ivory, deformed. Persephone blooms.
Peripheral darkness, looming, encroaching empty orbs,
thrashed to throes. Fibrous spittle fleck adorned reflection
captures silent cadences, now emptied momentarily.
She says hold me
with her eyes
and whispers promises
with her hands.
Her skin speaks to me
in dulcet tones
and my heart sings
at the sight of her.
She says nothing
and it means the world
to share her silence.
The skies are dark and my eyes are heavy.
I think of her on days like this.
Better in bed than driven indoors.
I watch her eyes and stroke her hair
as she speaks of the future.
‘It’s supposed to rain,’ she says.
Storm clouds roil over us.
Sky borne somnambulists,
stalking the air, boding.
I whisper nothings
into the nape of her neck
and ask her,
‘Do you like the way that sounds?’
She just sighs amid the silence and lies.
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A Few Short Words 