Bus Stop

Were i to have sat there two minutes prior

i would not have met you

and i wouldn’t have been left brokenhearted

on the back of the 192.

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More than Friends

We were more than just friends

We were scorpions with tails linked.

We were venom spilled and mixed.

 

Our reclusive bodies

Made reputations of our souls.

 

We mingled in the air like smoke

And stood out like blue.

We were the belladonna in the ruins,

We were the heroin in the river.

 

We lay side by side,

And locked each other in thought.

It wasn’t long

Before our passion burned

And disappeared like paper.

Nostalgia

I’m a sucker for nostalgia

It makes me cry in defiance

Of my age; I don’t need to be

How others feel they should be,

Instead I can lie to the world

With eyes uncaring and tired.

Childhood… man –

It was good while it lasted

And I’ll be damned if I don’t

Make it last forever.

Glitterati

Like a deplorable trail of smoke

From the final cigarette of a bum

Who had it all and then lost it all,

You fade into the air and are forgotten.

 

Your body falls through shadows

Like hollow bones in a grave,

But you are lost, drunk and unfeeling

And you let the ether claim you.

 

Then like a lover expectant

Lying on an unmade bed with red sheets,

You try to sleep but your mind is in oil

And your eyes see angels.

 

You never woke, you never slept.

Like a cut out headline you imprint then decay,

Leaving only remnants of a burnt page

Dancing in the lost space of a man’s mind.

 

Champagne, no name, never to age,

Your eyes say they have seen it all

But you shiver at the sight of the poor

And your feet bleed as you dance.

 

Do not fool with the glitterati of the city.

City Walk

I can walk sentimental streets

Without being ashamed of my smile,

Yes, I can walk with pride

At my being, at my being alive.

The marriage of the breeze with

The perfumes of flowers growing

In between concrete scars

And the gasoline from passing cars

Lingers thoughtlessly in the air.

Still I look down at my steps

Going forward, never missing a beat.

I am in the city now, and it is full,

It never feels constrictive or contrived

No matter how many ads plague the skyline

They are just part of the feature.

My sentimental street is another river to the sea,

A free and open society.

 

*Feedback would be cool!

Music

Would you improvise with me?

It could be a simple symphony,

A cacophony of stars in melted blue,

Swirling winds and moonlight too,

Shades of night, a pallet in our hands

Complex melodies like falling grains of sand,

Thick like smoke, will you hold this tune?

That weaves around the lonely room,

Fingers deep in a cascade of champagne

Waterfall, bright, diamond cold rain.

Would your piano play classical?

Or would it fall into the fantastical,

On its knees into a dream that we both feel

One we could keep but never make real,

Is that not what music is for?

An ephemeral, erotic, opening of the dawn,

Why the feminine notes float I do not know

But I know they cause no ripples to grow

And spread over your silver trading rivers,

Ships, golden as a waltz, send shivers

Down the wire spines that move as we move

In this inferno, this ballroom of truth.

I hold the notion that it is quiet now,

Listen with me, silently, it is quiet now.

Winter’s Spirit

Four winters I have seen

With the power to cloud the summers green,

When roses were lost under snow and frost

Like crystal or starlight, white in a dream.

 

A pool around a bright blue eye

Or a jewel hidden in the white of the sky,

A fountain stands untouched by the hands

Of Winter, unable to rest, unable to die.

 

She approaches, pale skin and hair,

A being as harsh as Ice and pure as air;

Unable to bestow her curse of killing snow

On the fountain standing both strong and fair.

 

Nor can she hold back the coming Spring

Who calls for life to grow and birds to sing,

And Winter loses her dominion in the dawn.

Darkness fades, and newly grown, everything.

Churchyard in Padstow

I left behind idle time

Once I entered the churchyard in Padstow

Silent and alone.

No names written on the weathered graves,

No choir in the church

Yet songs ran free from budding trees,

Songbirds in their morbid sanctuary.

One gate leads to the path towards the sea,

The other into woodland

Nightly shaded even in the day.

This is peace in harmonious decay.