River Grove Valentine –

The Garden

ruptured in tumult

the day, in hands

the fruit was felt.

The Valentine that brought despair

in chains of bondage, in a Hell-fire flare.

The dramatis acted out too soon

on the flesh of those who work in the Grove

under a crimson moon.

Above all the doors

tendons and heart strings festooned

like ribbons at a baptism –

of blood.

You carved my heart

from my chest like wood

and burned it in a year long flame

to conjure for yourself a love so great

A romantic River Grove death,

Valentine’s day!

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Light Bringer

There it was behind

the red curtain,

the geyser, the fountain

of crimson.

Tendons shake,

reverberate, plucked

with teeth crushing

concrete between stars

crashing down.

As the dust encircles me

a pentagram of skin,

a body.

You are found,

torn petals of flesh scattered

around enamel powder

and the demons trapped

like ship in a bottle.

Lucifer under a lampshade

taut light bringer

we called with a breaker

and a switch.

A back lit

piece of plastic.

Symbols speaking

in tongues, in rhythm

clicking with the strips

of severed finger tips

muscle memory padding

into an ethereal glow,

a ghost light

of some form of intelligence.

Creativity bleeding out like blood

painting the sky with floating moats

of liquid life drained

with the battery of device.

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Know Song for a Tune

The nail beds wilt

in the rust rain,

feathered dust grains dropping

like sand. See the silicone sparkle.

Lengthened and sharpened to fine points.

Walk through the unmarked mounds at night,

the bloat and the rot hoisting stones

in Sisyphus dreams, you call out to me.

I reach out, through the menagerie

chained down on coiled haunches between hedges

in the garden we never tended. Let wild grow;

rampant and fevered. Drip sweat down on to a

form indented pillow. Face down. Archangel

with a strap-on, you are my Knight flashing sword

catching dawn by the throat. We are sated by the spray.

Swallow hard. Take the night like a sheet to cover the dead,

pull it up tight to your throat while you rest your weary head.

Sing to me. Caress me. One nail down the jaw line,

tell me you love me,

that you are mine for all time

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POV Past the Stars

White space
                   
                         open field:
Vision times points of view
spinning
gninnips
spinning
where the center lost its hold.
The falcon laying dead in the field.
The falconer sits weeping on the stone.
See it bleed, leaking clear like turpentine
washing colour away dribbling into a beach, a sandy cove of white grains
blanketing the bodies buried to the neck,
mouths agape in silent screams
words that speak mouths cannot hear;
the Sphinx goes unanswered in
the back-lit cosmic screen
filtered
in the instant static of the dissolution
of the true connection,
finger tips no longer touching
the tips of other fingers

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In The Mists of Time

Her long fingers 
reaching like spider legs stretching. 
She sifts, through mixed nut
minutes and seconds in a shallow bowl – 
His arms outstretched –
two spiders kissing, 
kissing in the bowl. 
Strained fabric taught and torn,
the stuffing spilling out, dripping on the floor
cumulus drips, cotton blood 
from the neglected old wounds
in their old armchairs
divided by The round table
hoisting the bowl.
The springs shriek startled 
with each movement 
through the mouths of old cuts. 
Tendons curl and creak
like dusty dry leaves in the dry beds of flesh – 
no longer red but a an ash-grey hue,
however, the embers between grate slats
match the glow circumferenced
by the slate of their ancient eyes
years before the damp logs 
fizzled and popped and the tips of tongues 
wavered and flicked soot into the air, 
the billowed rage of chimney vents 
throttling the sky.
Thin threads descend from 
ampullate palms, 
a golden orb predicts
pasts contained in empty shells

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Seasonal

We strolled through the damp grass

holding our breath, or just breathing

through our mouths

to avoid the smell, mulch and clippings

made us both gag. The fetid smells of spring,

the world blossoming;

a heavy green menstruation.

The gas lamps were dimming

with the coming light.

We tried to hold hands.

We passed others walking leisurely

with downcast eyes averting some

absent attention from us.

We took our time

and placed the seconds in vials

like captured moths and flies

in the pockets of our coats

and held them up to look

at their firefly glow of their bioluminescence;

tiny bones in translucent flesh.

We used to hold candle flames

up to our own hands

fascinated by their own glow

and the primordial red

encasing our own soft bones.

Living death in red satin.

We could smell it before it fell,

the smoky, soft, wooden scent

and down came the rain:

Our palms flat at the end

of outstretched arms,

our skin rolling like the ripples

in a pond as each drop struck.

So we trudged for cover

softly lit by the contents of each vial

growing brighter with decay

stark against  the gun smoke sky

as all that slowly ticks away

suffocates and dies.

We tossed the vials on the ground,

they bounced and barely made a sound

floated but for a breath

and shattered further into death.

We strolled through the damp grass

holding our breath, or just breathing

through our mouths came clouds,

the dew and damp receding

from the frost crawling with each step

covering the ground all along,

as we’re swallowed by the fog

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Out Sight

She embraced me,
Opened fingers,
the slit spread
the lid of the eye in the palm of her hand, gazing.
She sees me like the blind,
roving,
fingers crawling like spider
legs across my skin
stretching her silk
as it sinks in,
blinking as if the sun
was in her palm.
She brings on night
rolling her fingers closed,
clenched fist; the moon.
‘Sleep,’ she says and I do.
The world does.
Stillness in the dark.
When she releases the day,
unfolding the moon like cloth.
I wake, she takes hold,
caressing, breathing,
great cosmic heaving
the sky in even rhythmic waves
returning, flooded, I release
and she sees

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Everything Missed

Like a ghost in

a fog

You’ve been standing

at this intersection

far too long.

Lost in the mist

staring down a

forever road

with a dead end.

It seems to stretch

like melting taffy into exit sign light.

As the day braces

for impact with the night

all signs sink into the murk,

toppled in the dirt.

Still, you stand as twilight

twists like rubber bands

unravelling in a hurry

day and night wrap and unwrap

around one another in a blurred

speedy ecstasy.

Images from a sun-dazzled zoetrope

play on the surrounding landscape.

There’s a Raven vessel sitting at Your feet,

a note attached: ‘Drink me!’

You take a long draught,

and drop the bottle.

Your body spills and skin leaks

absorbed into the dust and sand

below your feet.

An old world spreads out before you, hazy

but those scenes appear through a vacant stare

as you realize, those aren’t your eyes and all these

memories you do not recognize.

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Blossoming Romance

She asked me so nicely,

ever so subtle and politely,

‘will you be the one to pay,

hand over the eyes, place the coins

to pay for the ferry over?’

A cheap suicide turned lover.

‘Yes.’

‘Thank you ever so much, you’re the best.’

‘I’ve written a letter so you don’t have to worry about the others.’

I felt the well up, a tide rising that hit the beach behind my eyes

and kept pushing on, tidal, taking out buildings

as the scabbard tore and the point hit home,

metal stuck in bone.

The EXIT sign above the door flared and I swear I saw her standing there,

the frame swallowing the light.

But she was lying, under the new patterned white sheet,

hyacinths blooming red across her coverlet.

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