Clinging On To Broken Rocks

My feet are bleeding –

these are not eggshells,

they are knives.

My throat is bleeding –

this is not clear water,

it is glass.

My eyes are bleeding –

this is not daylight,

it is a dying star.

My hands are bleeding

from clinging on too long

to broken rocks

and failing still to avoid

falling into the depths.

Love is Drowning

Love is deep,

as though intense of heart,

until you realise

your lightheadedness

comes from drowning.

Poisonous

To despise you is far simpler

and much worse.

To love you is more poisonous

and far sweeter.

Sometimes a Noose

Sometimes we love too long

in the wrong place;

sometimes the river is not for cleansing,

but for drowning.

Sometimes we long too deeply

for the wrong thing;

sometimes the tie that binds us

is really a noose.

Fingers Bleeding

These fingers black

from holding tight

to something wrong

that broken down

leaves darkest things

under bleeding nails.

Let It Burn

This –

perhaps

– will burn my hands,

but let it do what it may;

let it

burn down this building –

let it burn down the world.

Rot Your Lungs

Words at last spoken

will not rot your teeth

as they leave your mouth,

but they will rot your lungs

if never they are said.

Lest They Waste

The only wise thing

to be done to stay well,

when I learnt

you were deaf,

dumb

and blind

was to turn down my sounds

and switch off my light,

lest they waste too much energy

and kill this living thing,

spin though it might

into silence

and darkness.

Brush Teeth While The Ground Drops

Would that we might

brush teeth or wash dishes

while the earth

falls

down

around us,

but instead will I

brush dust from my clothes

as you wash your hands,

and the ground

drops

beneath only me.

Hoarding

Perhaps this is my doing,

and hoarding all the

remembering –

of names and numbers

and dates and feelings –

has given you

nothing more to recall,

and left me forgotten.

In Smoke

In dark and in cold,

with little noise,

all this is nothing

but a fading wisp of smoke.

Out In Wildest Sea

Out in widest sea,

the ship teeters back

and forth

in the echoes of the storm,

long passed

and quickly arrived

after the trick of shining sun,

with all that remains

being water and wind,

for no one is left on deck,

the captain

long fallen overboard,

meeting with the rocks which

had otherwise been avoided,

cold water now

the bed for sleeping death.

The Attention of the Moon

The howl of the wolf

came only when he

needed to be heard;

he did not call

to reunite the pack,

but simply for

the attention of the moon.

Knots

Knots are really knives.

Headaches are screaming.

Sicknesses are poison.

Butterflies are falling rocks.

Expense

Yours

was a misery,

managed at my expense.

And so too,

it seems,

is your joy.

Just a Song / Only Onward

Listen to the call –

there are no rocks ahead,

and the song

is just a song;

the sea

will not take you down,

only onward –

out to the horizon

and the music.

Analog Man – A Haiku

The analog man

has outrun his usefulness;

just a memory.

Further Upstream / Cursing the Waters

If,

as you stand across from another

at the river’s edge,

drinking from its

ripples,

you are concerned about

poison in the water,

your first step need not be

to keep from sipping,

but rather to stop

pretending

that is is not you who has been

cursing the waters,

from further upstream.

The Men Who Ate The Songbirds

When the drought came and the fields decayed into a wasteland, the people had little to say and little energy with which to say it. In the end, they could not speak at all. Silence had come, and the deaf had powers to communicate, their hands dancing, that all others had to learn if they wished to see the further days. But learn, they would not.

Met usually with fear or, at least, suspicion, the old men who lived in cabins in the darker parts of the woods were the only ones with voices left. They had learned to live more off the land, and so maintained their strength – misplaced though it was, in men said to be wandering there for at least a century. It was not really, though, their skill in finding hidden streams or knowing what could be caught or foraged safely, that allowed them to keep their voices.

These were the men who ate the songbirds. In so doing, they took the gift of these smallest creatures for their own, singing and whistling and speaking freely, if only the others would listen.

The people believed the birds were precious, and the cabinmen vicious. Perhaps they were right, indeed, on both matters. But those hidden dwellers knew, and would say given the chance, that drought would always come, and the capture and consumption of songbirds would be necessary for living on.

They would not tell the silent people, though, for this land was not theirs to keep, undeserving as they were for having failed to learn the handspeak of those who never heard or spoke at all. This was the way, every time. Nothing learned.

This barren land was a punishment. People would return, and so too would the driest times. Death, then. Only the men of the cabins would remain, and the songbirds would sing, and then sing no more, until the next time.

Between Two Forks / Vanishment / Might At Least

Hissing between two forks

is better than silence,

would be better still than kindness.

Bloody knuckles

might at least add colour

to cold hands

or feeling in untouched palms.

Kicking into ribs,

if not running into vanishment,

would stand for something true

and be

at least a step in the right direction.

Hissing is better than kindness,

bloody knuckles add colour,

kicking would be right.

Between two cold hands,

into vanishment,

hissing might at least

stand for something.

Emptier Still / Inkwell

He writes at a desk

on the wrong paper,

with an ever-emptying inkwell;

dances,

not just out of time

but without music;

leads these almost-ghosts,

in a world full of ghouls.

He writes at a desk

on the wrong paper,

with the wrong words,

an ever-emptying inkwell,

and a soul becoming

emptier still.

Proud / Shame

Let out the lions’ roar,

for who you are

is king of beasts,

but run like gazelle

from all the shame

you fail to feel

about over-drinking

from the watering hole,

and leaving others

to waste away,

carcasses before their time.

Better Than This

Silver at least,

though you think only copper.

Silver at least:

I am better than this.

Do Not Ask

Please,

do not ask me:

I do not know the answer;

or perhaps I cannot

hear you,

or rather it is you who heeds

not me,

Maybe I do not

understand the question;

or it may simply be

that I cannot

bear to give response.

Do not ask me –

please

– I do not know the answer.

Need Not Wander

You need not wander

when you are lost.

You need not dive into the sea,

if you are already drowning.

You need not grip a blade

when you are already bleeding.

You need not kill a songbird,

if you find you cannot sing.

The Man, His Claws

He may,

living in wilderness,

seem to be more beast

than human being,

but his teeth are sharp,

so too his claws,

and they are every part

the man.

Green

This stone is cracked.

Once green with the hope

of growth and spring,

now moss-greened with cold

and being left untouched;

for a moment,

green as though with envy,

now sickness-green,

and letting in no light

despite its flaws.

This stone is cracked.

These Hands

These hands

click fingers,

press down,

embrace,

intertwine,

push back,

pull close,

attach,

reach in,

hold still

point on.

These hands.

Written Ahead

What could it be?

Perhaps a history,

written ahead;

a bite from a lip red apple;

hands,

firm on the tiller;

drinking and drinking in.

What could it be?

Black Stone – A Haiku

I am crushed beneath

the cold black stone which somehow

hangs upon your neck.