Monday, July 27, 2009

The Emperor.

I was afraid
to start another page
with any other sentence
than
I was afraid
for fear of shedding too much light
on myself
and leaving this character
behind
alone in the dark
where he always
believed himself
to be.

I was beside myself
with emptiness
and unsure
which of us
was the stronger
and who would take
the next turn
the knight or
the page
or the fool
but I didn't wait
I just
took it upon myself
to take
one step
out of the black
and into the red lit
white walls
which enclosed
this new discovered freedom.

The Emperor
sat in my hand
strong and patient
and I felt little concern
sharing my dementia,
I asked,
have I left behind
tortured muse
the joy of a broken man's art
the release of sorrow of guilty creation?
Will the notes still dance
silver fruit
upon the prison bars
if this good boy is not
racked and shivered by sobbing inspiration?

Is that the price?

The Emperor was quiet
for a time
and I held his gaze in a mock of courage
taller in leather boots and tie
wiser I thought I
seemed, without the red poison
a weekend's worth
shifting my heart, clouding keen judgement,
fuelling passion's destructive intent to bleed
yesterday's maudlin painting
which hangs crooked
on tomorrow's
false emptiness.

He spoke
one sentence
and his lion breath caressed
my reflective skin
thinned by perception
for his words were my own
as he faded

until alone

I found
an End
to Hell's
exposed falsehood

these copper and bronze insights
masquerading as Gold
and tossing wires and pipes into the fire
the purple detours and sleight of hand descriptors
burned brighter and brighter, the tunnel moving faster
the Truth filled with laughter, the internal master, the craft and the crafter
the morose and dribbling dafter, who by his own hand had sat behind while all
had fled,
he chose the dead
over the living, held tight the squinting child - and for what - not even his own reward
but for other's benefit, a double play, so that he might say
that in this sorrow lived his true heart
when it did not - oh no, it did not
but nor did it live
in what he had forgot
(breathe quickly here, breathe fast my friend)
the final
the last
the beautiful END

was

what?

A single star in a dead black night
a smile not feigned, but born of what's right
an intelligent decision
a dance of precision
a sigh of
breathtaking
humility
with which to empty the last lees of self doubt
and embark upon
a most courageous adventure
an
imagination
of Real Life.

(Breathe slowly now, breathe slowly now, friend)

And if you do,
you might just hear
my
Lion.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

Closed.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

Owari/Hajime.

There's no easy way
to hear the sentence

I don't love you
anymore

it's an avalanche
of

since I left you

a world
brand new

another
"anyone but you"

and this one wasn't printed
but
maybe it was
true

just as

the Blue
which I had
used

for desperate
purpose

lit Golden
my face
as I
opened
the window
and
fell forward
into
this
breath taking
dawn.

Home.

When I finally came Home
Jason sang goodbye
and I cried
I won't lie
eight months
of being an apology
will hurt the best
of you
but
let it rain
now
Jason
let it rain.

"it
seems
no matter
how dark things
get
someone is always
watching
from the end of
the bed"

And then
that
was
That.

And I am Home.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

Anna.





Two tickets July 30, 7pm.

No date.

Monday, July 13, 2009

Live forever.

I couldn't compete
with those itchy feet
your saccharine pink
and silk stained sheets
merely a sacrifice
a cocktail personality
the double sided umbrella
a two faced
dragon
whose brief spark
was merely breathed
to pass the time
between moods
waiting upon your
next fickle arrow
to hit the target
oh my
a bull's eye
another Hope
upon a lost little red bike
an answer to all those dreams
of not having to work, think,
or deal
just dress up
and wink
(suspenders today - I think)
and you'll have it all
another Monroe, Bardot
is that how it goes
(well yes, I suppose)
to those
who know
that Fame
is an End
more
worthy
than
a
friend
who
unknown and unpromoted
sits
emptied - stunned
and
left
with nothing
but
a
head
filled
with
fogged and tragic
dreams
and a hand on his
gun.

Thursday, July 9, 2009

Catch.


The price
of being Sheep
is boredom.

The price 
of being Wolf
is loneliness.

Tuesday, July 7, 2009

Shade.

The Eclipse came and told me
"you've been a mistake"
and in its darkness
I stood shocked
and frozen
at this callous
assessment.

I waited for it to pass
so that Light
might
shed
some sense
of understanding
on the situation
but when it arrived
all it did
was sting my eyes.

But I guess,

that was

no surprise.

Because really
what you've done here
my Sight said,
is paint a portrait
of darkness
so real
that Light itself
slides
off the surface
straight passed
you
and on
to find illumination
elsewhere.











First Service.

Love started with a smell and sight
a lingering light
and fancy
a tomorrow that might have come
rather than the today
we had to have.

And in the beginning I said
I can't Love yet
(though I did)
I still felt the Old Love's cruel fingers
twisting in me
and I still felt judged by my own esteem
and how could I be ready
I lacked ability
and I had not the Earth
from which to view
her night sky
and all the darkened mysteries
that lay sleeping within.

And even these false and fragile fingers
these olde word charms
failed me then, their fear dulling a simple Truth
that here was another chance
to make fresh milk
from my udderly dried
and sagging
muscle.

(In Hell, you see, all is magnified
a bad day birthing
a morose wimper
anger to armageddon
grief to suicide
heartache to
hopelessness
comedy to tragedy
until
snivelling
and alone you are doomed
to live
your charmed life
callously tossing aside your
health and
the meaning of your friends
with it...)

Love
came
and
went
and came
and spent
we lay crying
together or apart
it no longer seemed to matter
it was the same
pain
and in shame
I hid my head
on the couch or spare bed
of any soul who was bored
or lonely
or generous
enough to listen to me
for a night
for Pride still claws
my skin
and in
these moods I would catch myself
and reeling the pity in
I could resonate with
those around me.

Enough about me
I could say
followed by
You Talk
or Sure I'll Have One
or
Excuse Me Sir - The Walls Are Melting
And I Just Thanked
The Toilet
Because The Mushrooms
You Gave Me
Are Really Working Now...

(and Love won't know
or listen
but I could feel it then
a tiny needle
amongst the Hey
of my pals
but I could not fight the
hallucinations
they had me
they had me
and I knew it was ten hours to go
until they stopped
and it was all I could do
to ride them out)

Wild Horses
Eels
Caramel Witches
Trees with Sheep and Dogs
a Golden Aztec Statue
Two Tight Friendships
(concern-worry-decay-colours-blood on the walls-fight it-fight it-embrace it or die)
The Absolute
BEAUTY
of False Sight
Hiding in the Real Warmth
of a Ginger Jacket Godfather
and then
slowly
as the sun rose
hearing yourself come back to Earth
and talking of Love
and 'No-One Else'
and is there still a tomorrow?

No.

You lost Tomorrow
last night
sometime around 8pm
and no matter
how fast you run
you may never
catch it again.

So

you sit
tonight
on another cross road
and you know
the reality
bad choices, wild acts, how easily you are distracted
and you try to balance it out
close friends, a true heart, reaching out
but you tumble all the same
finding emo
in a dark corner
alone in a pub
where you had hoped to find
a Tuesday friend
but instead
you found
The Tuesday
End.

Love began
- you see -
with milk and honey
and china doll white
and inevitably ended in
whisky
and
night.

It just felt
-you see-
so
mother
fucking
right.