“Bookshelf”

the titles reached up high,
the mountains of fantasy
dominating the upper reaches
in long stretches of hard-to-say
names and strange england-like
lands, then came the crime
in black-and-white city streets
and men with eyes too haggard,
then bright-souled coming of age
novels, asking for optimism and love.

at the bottom sat the poems
tucked into notebooks.

“Curtained Sunlight”

It’s more like ink than blood,
despite the implications of writing
your death on the page quite so
failingly, haltingly literally.
It’s more like life than not,
despite a general lack of vigour
and movement and love and passion
calling you to rise instead of
midday sunbeams burning your eyes.

“Recollected”

you could work with nights like this
where the memories are blurred
and the rain is underwhelming
and you miss midafternoon coffee.

there’s a dosage you remember
that dealt with nights like this,
but they were all long ago
dead in different / same problems,
now her face is blurred
her fingertips are waxy,
waned with all the words
I’ve stuttered through since.

“Encounter”

spines straight
curled, thumbed
hair scattered
unbrushed
following fingertip
walkings, wasting
time and waists
walked around
with closed eyes
broken chests
and black
ink, pooling
pressed together
palms, trying
failing, holding,
dropping

i lost words.

“And it Roars”

Midnight mental meanderings,
scribble-scorched papers,
bed sheets bloodied by ink and words
and thoughts and feelings, felt
and unfelt, uncertain assertions
tumbling through possible pathways
previously hidden –
sweet permissible nothingness,
welcome black, void-edge twirling
spinning, failing, flying nothing-anxieties
with broken backs, scars bursting
into being, pockmarks
marking palmprints with curling
spiraled roots searching for water,
love and life – life and love,
inkwells running dry of familiar
worlds and words and whereabouts,
nothingness, voids, oblivion, black,
sweetness bitter burning, understanding
scratches the front of your cortex,
potential enlightening, understanding,
it all bristles at your coming, but
fades when you reach for it,
fingertips and fog, a desert swallows
a drop of water, a bead of sweat,
a ball of insubstantial everything
growing in the centre of your forehead,
taking all the space of your thoughts
and none of it,
subsuming you, breathing you,
breaking you, walls of loss
and life and love and loss rising
infront, behind, before, afterwords,
intent is lost, it was never
found or had or loved or
lost or lived or loved, or loved
or loved