Monthly Archives: April 2011

andmoreagain

A sickness comes and goes – this week
a week of denials, this month, a lack

-ing and you tell me of your past to
pass away some paragraphs while
horns splinter the streets and our walk
-ing is only a method to reflect your
hair colour and my memories clamber

to sudden peaces, I wait for a world from you

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sparrow’s lot

There’s something in the searching of
if an up rises, if an off is off
or down
your face twitches at the thought

I was here in past perfects: I had been
also
I’d watched you anyway from this gap;
spreading, reconstitutor, lost
a schoolgirl fantasy arrested at the gates

wearing worry with pride, a message
flashes itself on my lens.
You pace, your crowd cheers
the same as they’d have done for anyone.

your words are poor, but betray your past
a poet now? equality?

let us believe that time is passing
and not just limbs flinching as
years hit walls – part of me still pities.


anew

Even though I keep my temperature constant
I’m aware disappointment moves through me
with various arrangements of colder air, treat

-ing, an array of slights. I am not more, here.


thinking aloud (A3)

This glasswall, those fingers,
This thinning out and glare

-ing red hair fills my

rooms and nothing moves
except my eyelashes when
I look at what you send me


song for A14

A face of stone found
elephantine

an engraving, a Romanian town
three flights up
above the bank – it splits
reveals lips
like you couldn’t imagine
bear a legend

tell us that
we don’t move
but that around us
rushes past

pushing hands
in flesh to leave
fingerprints
in paisley bruises
promise me
you’ll come home


we grow inside houses

We grow inside houses.

So it may be easier
to find us – look inside
there’s a space where you can see
a battle with the urge
to simply orbit one another
swinging around a larger mass
we haven’t found a word for
yet the days drop off
and we spend one moment
seeking ways to wound
and the next lost in grasses with
blades splitting skies, and these
useless links are what birth us
and ensure we never really move


Song for A7

I’m remembering a time before; all I saw
was your face reflected through optic lines
sitting in your kitchen, spilling stories

mothers and sons; the colours of your
phrenology, loving their way from your voice
to deeply beneath my tongue. It stays.

How did we go from that to where; you
humming a way around my homes, a
voice in my kitchen, bleeding my sheets?