saturday storm

I was

down in

a long park, rife with

the combatants of Saturday weather

diving through sunbeams to avoid the coming storm

as it rumbled in the background of cliché, through london

baked pre-summer half turned over with a smattering of green and blue

spring

we sat with angular men, drawing blue corners around shaded eyes

squinting to filter the light of our faces and hide the light in our eyes

as the rain came, we denied it

pushing back it's coming importance, weaving through droplets of

inevitable wetness, drenching our shoulders,

pulling my eyes towards the lack of cloth on your

lower neck

forming dotted patterns on your splotch-framed cool attitude

and you danced in it too

all toes and the rest

but it's the rest

the rest

the rain went, but the sun never came back

tired from weeks of overexposure and the anticipation of christians

longing for the modest cover of grey, pulverised water

so we sat under a tree, hiding the sky

in a swinging boat of warmth and acceptance

dipping our toes into the exploration of self and

expensive cocktails

I looked into your eyes a thousand times that day,

and every time your eyes blinked with divinity

with a forgotten importance of the dark edges of blue

with soft, sharp, steel gaze I just wanted to bleed through it

and see the back side of your brain and your mind

I watched your lips as you read my words, looking for hints of a

hidden smile

one that you might want me to look for

one that might have the sky and the moon in it

that night, I don't remember the moon, but I saw it within you

that night, I don't remember the moon,

but I remember you

Poetry cafe number 3

Like we would need to escape

if the flames of ignorance burnt our temple down

our pages are made of mind-stuff

grasping out of our various lobes to clutch the slippery truth of the word

like we would need to escape

so insulated from the ignorance of bonfire piles

of discredited magicians and prophetic charlatans

denying us the tangibility of love and of hurt

as we sink into red plastic chairs to feel the full

aching brilliance of shared thought

like we would need to escape

if the inferno reached this far down,

would it be better outside, in the ruin of human life

or should we put our hands up, sacrifice our fingers for the warmth of shared brilliance

cut us out, cut us out,

keep us underground and cool

give us signs to escape, into the quarantine of society

we are not monsters

we who hide under the stairs,

hogging blake for ourselves,

eating large gulps of irony and romance

gluttons of shared brilliance

like we would need to escape

we fire-proof few

you could burn us to death, but we'd still have our bones

and those bones could spell out new words in the wreckage

like we would need to escape,

well probably we would

but not because you told us how

like we would need to escape

the fires of shared brilliance

under the stairs

when I grow up

When I grow up
I will be a recluse, and a poet
watching the brick wall for indications of
an inner beauty, patterns of sense in red and
brown red, angular spaces of rough grey
will I see faces in the grass and concrete and
faces in the patterns on bathroom floors and
stains in the corridor
fleeting memories of what I can't see
movement in language of
the opening of layered yellow
incantations of life

when I grow up
I will be a habit and an impulse
breathing shallow smoke filled breaths of
cumulative tiredness
watching repeated patterns of
life's patterns refusing to give in to
slowing fingers and strained mind
timed by the length of ash trails
quantified by hurt and joy
wandering grey idol of the lack of being

when I grow up
I will be clear and alive
or I hope I will
or I hope I will

When I grow up
I will have scars on my hands
not from working but from rough prayer
to gods of longevity and ego and faith
digging through sharp, heavy ground to find
sustenance in the foundation of love
refusing to give in to the separations caused by
my lack of extra-dimensional awareness

but I could see it for a little while
please believe that I could see it

an unworthy poem, written in a worthy notebook

And you are,
A scarf, and things,
Blue and green with,
Streaks of acceptance.

And you are, a solid eye,
Staring with honest energy,
Placed across the couch in,
My mind.

And I am,
Wishing I could see your,
Scarf more clearly,
And see the weary inside it,
Scared of my pen and mind.

I'm a wolf, just,
A psychic vampire, strung out,
On the junk of emotion,

And you are,
So,
So,
So many branches of light,
If I could grasp it,
If I could just be a leaf.

poetry cafe number 2

And I'm here

among the wood grained dark stained

flat tables of cubed sweetness

ailing books with cracked spines

practised cryogenics and god

if I could spell it with seas

if I could fly over low oceans

dipping beneath the harsh waves of

crumpled reality and

forced memory

meaning from bed to heart to head and

plastered from bed to heart to head and

mixed flavours of forced spelling

and I'm here

among wood grained light stained

curved chairs with scuffed post-punk

ailing souls with the need for a fluke

a fleeting flute shrill

twittering through electronic windows

if I could spell it with care

seeping through wide cracks of

garish bravery

gaunt aches of the head and heart and

I'm here

thinking of what I could do about

think of what I should do about

thinking all the time

I'm here amongst the white brick readings

growing up in Reading, city of every state

springing through fields of repeated sentiment

finding new townes and boss weights

shivering with the anticipation of the next word

and I'm here

and I never quite finish

and I'm

I'm just

a work in progress

What can I see with my dying eyes?

As words and numbers sink into textures and shadows

have I seen too far into the all of being

expanding my vision, blurring my resolution so that I might fit it all in?

As the details hide behind

my inability to focus

squinting to read road signs and facial expressions

gasping through semi-closed eyes for the knowledge of vision

as they wilt

as the colours around me

blend into bleeding patterns of

undisclosed

details

de-tailed quetzalcoatl

soaring god of the crowded city

casting glaring branches of light across the sky

destroying my eyes

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As have expanding as my squinting

grapsing as as blended disclosure

details de-tailed soaring casting destroying

what can I see with my dying eyes?

As grasping details

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less and less every day

what can I see with my dying eyes?

Less than before

less than before