Light from darkness and sky from sea
but not you from me,
not you from me-
religion from science and nature from god, beastliness from human-ness
but not blood from blood,
not good from good
for goodness sake; for each to have
a torn half of a heart to hold?
One key from chaos
at least; you and me.
Not in frost or in fracture-
where our sacred souls agree
inseparably.
No carers available
Roads full of cars but no one to carry you.
Its like lifts, I suppose,
when you need one
there’s none, none licensed to care
no one trained to see, no one qualified
to say what’s going on or hear or tell.
What have we been allowed to become
to allow such rigidity, regime, regs
-I’m not swinging a boot
so don’t swing a boot at me-
this is about common sense
common ground; commonism
and there’s nothing wrong with it,
being common. Just get in there
and care.
What is left; sobre mesa
how the sand has been walked on
like fingers on a fretboard;
an imprinted cacophony by the
eyeballing strains of the sea.
The sun like a rose wilting on a window sill
petal blue sky with the searchlight rays
beaming through cloud coming
‘joy and pain are like
sunshine and rain’
and there you are, in the mix
and here I am. And there is time
that took more to make less
was handed to us to make more with
but more what; we’re peering into bottles
to see what is left
and every breath
is death.
A hug is a hoist.
You may be your own man
but I am your own son.
A mug is a moisture
measurer and so the milk goes in.
You’ll go as you’ve gone;
indomitably dogmatic,
-hand-railed reality-
will eroded by habit,
pitted pathways of habitat;
home, where the mind is
plugged in, unvoiced.
There is no wood in this hole
yet no draught and no rush, nothing
ushering a soul to go through;
it’s just a void to avoid,
there to contemplate
as much as to ignore, swerve
with the staying put power of existence
but the doorway,
it detects you, rejects you
until you’re ready to be taken then
processes, scans-ascension
to a hall, scanning strangers
holding up names.
Perched on the finish, the falcon feeds
her young, on the last lavish ledge,
the top rung of the dormant chimney
a colonial column, taut still,
unbudged by the different approach
of Time to an arm wrestle,
up on that lip the falcon,
even from the dirty, rascally ground
even as a shape, overseeing offspring,
is eye catching. Wood pigeons,
souls as fat as ducks and magpies
and crows haggle and hop in tree tops, all
surveyed, all prey
for the peregrine.
Ok, so there’s these people
and they have these powers
and they’re there for good,
for good-you say, they say
they’re there for good,
its the system and a story
and its a story of us,
of us you say, for us
it’s a story of us
and there’s nothing new happening
but you’ll stare anyway,
your homemade outfits are wearing thin
but they’ll go on anyway,
they’ll go on any way.
And that’s the way it is, that’s the one you want
that’s the one, that’s the one
you recognise and that’s the one
you want.
Blackbird, you’ve learnt to fly
now white chalk lines
go across the sky
Blackbird, you talked to me
in the dead of night
just you and me.
Blackbird: fly.
Blackbird, here on my mound
display teams go
round and round.
Blackbird, my eyes adjust
and blue skies turn
into chalk dust.
Blackbird: fly.
Into the light
if a dark black night.
suave, smoothly feathered
obesely tethered to their buffet
bird table, seedy patches
in the lengths of gardens they
make short flights to take long stops
in a leafless magnolia tree.
Just the cats that put the pressure on.
Why? Buying the feed and feeding
them, to waddle and coo
why? Nothing else to do.
stuffed under a slanted
top layer of slate resonant
skin a tip-tapping precipitation
over active us idle and dry
in the shell
My Deerboy 