Chalk Bones

My polished cheeks inherited

these whispered blushes.

Above them sits one jewel

in the traverse

of my brow’s flesh –

a stream of teardrops,

permanently nestle

in the body of my face –

they remind me of the child

caught crying

in ink black darkness

where the silver shadows

of pale moons would try to invade

her solemnity –

Occasionally,

we would dance

a reflection; swooning and

dipping, dodging emptiness,

faded scars and the morass

of past pain, redacted,

and the remains left to degrade.

Calm, moon chalk

expressions would beat down

in rhythmic shadows on my chest,

imposing stoic interruptions

where my stolid heart should be;

still at press pause, afraid of my

own heartbeat, of my organs,

of mnemonic patterns –

countless disjointed

memories have scattered,

fluttering endlessly like crazed

butterflies –

out of control

in chasms of grey, fleshy matter

where pretty cacti run my veins –

flower buds, seldom seen,

are happy there

forcing blood, forcing life.

I bang on the mirror…

until cracks fill with my blood –

like grime and dirt,

the pain of my disease

is ingrained –

it cannot be wiped away –

so my reflection oscillates.

I roll my cheeks one at a time;

offering warm flesh pressed hard

against cold glass –

my orange painted lips linger,

to mouth a prayer –

‘let my bones break

so that I might heal.’

I resolve one day to stop this

dance of attrition – and smear on

the neon, shop bought face mask,

swapping sorrows for sin,

and wade out from the steamy mire –

memories wiped, facets polished, pores unclogged –

for a little while

at least.

Cold cupped hands beat

the rhythm of the rain – the pale moonshine

is still smothered in shade –

ashen faced, I stare out from

inside the mirror –

but at least, I am whole.

Chalk Bones

My polished cheeks inherited

these whispered blushes.

Above them sits one jewel

in the traverse

of my brow’s flesh –

a stream of teardrops,

permanently nestle

in the body of my face –

they remind me of the child

caught crying

in ink black darkness

where the silver shadows

of pale moons would try to invade

her solemnity –

Occasionally,

we would dance

a reflection; swooning and

dipping, dodging emptiness,

faded scars and the morass

of past pain, redacted,

and the remains left to degrade.

Calm, moon chalk

expressions would beat down

in rhythmic shadows on my chest,

imposing stoic interruptions

where my stolid heart should be;

still at press pause, afraid of my

its heartbeat, of my organs,

of mnemonic patterns –

countless disjointed

memories have scattered,

fluttering endlessly like crazed

butterflies –

out of control

in chasms of grey, fleshy matter

where pretty cacti run my veins –

flower buds, seldom seen,

are happy there

forcing blood, forcing life.

I bang on the mirror…

until cracks fill with my blood –

like grime and dirt,

the pain of my disease

is ingrained –

it cannot be wiped away –

so my reflection oscillates.

I roll my cheeks one at a time;

offering warm flesh pressed hard

against cold glass –

my orange painted lips linger,

to mouth a prayer –

‘let my bones break

so that I might heal.’

I resolve one day to stop this

dance of attrition – and smear on

the neon, shop bought face mask,

swapping sorrows for sin,

and wade out from the steamy mire –

memories wiped, facets polished, pores unclogged –

for a little while

at least.

Cold cupped hands beat

the rhythm of the rain – the pale moonshine

is still smothered in shade –

ashen faced, I am inside the mirror,

but at least, I am whole.

Inside, Will the Sun Shine?

I wish it was possible to live
without a heart,
and walk inside a head
without thoughts
and dread.
And as I was walking in my head,
the lighting wasn’t set –
good moods left me at the lamppost –

its metallic flavour permeated my tongue
as I wrapped my cold arms around it,
while your taste
and the taste of blood
brought me darkness and tears.
I had hoped reinventing
the sunshine would bring me
memories like ham rolls,
and hot mustard
spilled onto a tablecloth of time
where I’d lay out my choices;
of meetings in the square,
casual and attentive,
awash with shadows
when they came to serve the daylight,
and with more than enough warmth
to dry these morbid tears.

I still walk for hours and hours,
but never venture out.

Bring me sunshine,
bring me laughter,
bring me love.

What’s Up? ~ Cinquain

Clean air,
gone in seconds.
Race with butterfly nets
across fields with jam jars aloft –
capture.

 

Keep badgering your local and central government until they get to grip on industry and look at rhe real issues afloat here.  We have a right to clean air and water.  They do not have a right to extortionate profit making at the expense of humanity.

Slow Death

I will slowly leave you.
One day, shadows will take me over
as you stand by and watch
or would you take my hand and heart,
as I drift, and ask me to stay?
Silent angels have walked with my grief
and agony for a long time now;
when my deepest thoughts can be heard
by no one, yet can be touched
by growling fingers,
they wrap their arms
around me, but one day
their song
began to slide like treacle
down the walls I’d come to dread –
swallowing me,
swallowing all of our lives;
it hung there, thick
with the lies, the violence
trapping us like flies on paper –
while the slaps, real and unsaid,
bruised the air, bruised us.
You said you loved me,
and I believed in it,
flung against the pictures
of our childhood,
flung against tradition,
flung against all we held dear,
and when that black heart of yours
grew tired,
I wished for peace,
I wished for darkness,
until soon the singing stopped.

Lessons for My Daughter

Italics are quotes from George Ivanovich Gurdjieff who was an influential early 20th century Russian mystic, philosopher, spiritual teacher.

do not wonder where we
have been –
all footsteps are obliterated,
all teaching is gone
and knowledge dissipated
by the curse of war;

harness wisdom
as if it were the sun’s energy,
learn belief and hope
outside of bricks and mortar
and scholastic endeavours.

Knowledge is a gift
but wisdom must be earned,

use it wisely as new seed
to enrich dry soil,
fuel the mind and healing
compasses turned by the wind’s
desire to grow stronger –
while lands toil

turn greed into respect
for the beauty of all things
and all people,
let humanity enter this uncertain
phase together so that we can
feed each other

with “wisdom” of the Orient
and the “energy” of the West

and let us stop, as a world,
destroying all life with impunity