Birds make the tips of greenless branches bloom –
baubles with beating hearts
and wings to take them away
on the twelfth day.
I love a blue sky,
but clouds are more to look at,
and the cars make the town less lonely,
though they choke it too.
Are those crop-circles in the field,
or the traces of me pacing around and around and around?
Waiting for you.
I want to decorate you the same,
and hang from you always.
All you’ve got to do is say.
For a living,
one man wakes up every day,
puts on his hat,
hangs up his hat,
and walks away.
He had learnt,
years ago now,
that nothing feels as real
as it did the first time.
At age fifteen, it felt divine.
Confine you to The Mine;
the vault that lies outside of thinking,
outside of dreaming.
No more to shine
but it cuts me when you do.
Haven’t I told you? You always do
So, I’d rather forget than remember,
the light we shone in together.
I’d rather put it out of sight.
headfirst we swim in the Depths of Forever.
My dreams you can’t escape;
No place for you there,
where you contradict and tease.
That’s just what my mind does to please me,
I must be more suspicious.
The gods planted jokers and sages
at a ratio of 1:1.
I seen in each deck
where there is but smoke.
Building towers, I start with
leave the bricks to thirst the moat.
Enter, most shadowy of my depths.
I know you grow from within, not behind.
I know you swam all those light years to get here.
I know your dance partners can’t hear your heels.
I know you struggle at the table to be heard.
I know you’ve been banished more times than allowed.
I know you’re truer than my ‘I’, longer than my height, and louder than my cry.
I know you’re older than that vessel you have hidden in for 25 years.
I know you take flight each night to spy on Artemis; in the woodland, help her hunt.
I know you chose the 25th of November because you fancied yourself as a Centaur.
I know you sweat for boredom, not for danger, hate for love, and love for pleasure.
I know you’d be freest as a bird; nothing’s as bountiful as the sky.
I know you love the water not for its wetness, but for its fire.
I know you felt the burn of rope as witches hung, and an alchemist’s desire to be young.
I know! I know! I know!
You say you know, but are you ready now to be?
Sanity’s my dwelling,
madness my destiny.
So, I must make for myself
a home of madness,
a hide there from its wrath.
No-one here to touch me.
a knife I bring to my right leg.
Just a pinprick.
Just something that says,
“There, you’re feeling.”
It’s that, or forget.
What is this curse?
A life that makes me quake.
Not visibly, but on the inside, mirrors shatter.
The figures in my mind shudder;
under the wrecks they gather
and try then to recover.
But when the cut bits realign with one another,
the new shape each looking glass takes
would make Narcissus