Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Til human voices wake us

I

It's all coming apart isn't it?

Falling, breaking,
crumbling into bone dust.
The ash on our sleeves is all
the ash the burnt roses leave.

Burnt rose stood proud in the rock,
the dead rock gives birth to the burnt rose.
The burnt rose in the middle of the Rockland.
This dead Rockland.

I'm with you in Rockland.

Let's dance on the rocks,
my love! - bare feet burning
on scorching sediment.
Dance with me,
dance,
dance.

II

Do you remember the day we met?
That dawning day.
The sun shone that day, bright and
beautiful, illuminating the grassland
outside the houses frequented by
old men in long coats.

That day, I will never forget,
that day when you held my
hand and left me hyacinths
in my room, my flowery
room was all in bloom!
I will never forget.
Never.

Forget

You held my hand and kissed me,
kissed me so gently in my room,
my room where people come and go,
talking of Michelangelo.

Talk talk talk, but we kissed. We kissed.
Your lips were soft like buttermilk.
Kiss.

Kiss. Kiss me on the lips I said. Kiss me.

You didn't care for the flowers!

I did I did, I cared, I care, I want life
to live - I want it to blossom, I wanted
it to blossom in my room, I wanted it...
but it didn't blossom, there was no
radiant bud, no beautiful blossom -
it wilted and died, there was no life,
and when it died I cried, I cried
because it died. Wilted and died.
Dead.

I loved it, I wanted to love it,
but you can't love death.
You cannot embrace him,
I have tried, no, death is
a cruel joke, a cruel joke.

We all die someday,
we all die tomorrow
if today is the day
of our lives.

Today is the day!
Carpe Diem Avalo!
Fly fly little starling, fly fly.

III

It's all coming apart

I don't want it to. I'll hold it together.

You can't hold on forever.

I can try.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

I can do it. I can hold on forever!

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us

and we drown.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Rosy

Rosy fingered Dawn,
on a dew-filled summer morn'.

Wind blows in
the long grass,
photoshopped
for stunning
saturation,
looking to the
heights of
imagination -
now when to
step beyond
contemplation?

Nature's cruel, Staros.

Discussion Forum

I think about many a
thing as Prof Hewitt
talks about the
justification for not
writing as a solely
Scottish writer.
A fighter, he engages
the ears but the mind
wanders and debates
whether the girl replying
has an annoyingly nasal
American accent; a
curious point to ponder
as her words do linger
for longer.
I think iPods would be
beautiful if they'd just
remove the buttons,
keep it simple, stupid.
Cupid, he's a funny 'ol
chap; sat seven rows
ahead is a girl who
gave me head, then
discarded me like a
used condom, or a
moudly loaf of bread.
Ribbet ribbet, what an
odd ringtone, schools
should be shown a
selection of languages
to teach: Latin, English,
French or even Scots;
ae didnae amour cogito, cunts.

Scottish Miserablism

Balmy room, balmy room
filled with gloom, gloom
and doom fills this room.

"Welcome! Welcome!
Sit and talk, sit and give
us your views, there's
nine things to choose!"

chirp chirp

Not that there were
birds in the room, the
balmy room filled with
gloom, but the feeling
was rigid as a loom.

chirp chirp

People sitting, quiet like
a riot, a riot of hot breath
on cold air, the aether
locked in a great battle.

chirp chirp

Balmy room, balmy room
filled with gloom, gloom
and doom fills this room.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Broken Heart

You wore a white dress
lined with black - your
lingering sense of death
was quite subtle tonight.

We sat by the fountain
next to the Jazz band,
I wanted to dance, but -
you refused, then broke
the silence with those
dreaded words;
'We need to talk'

I sat and listened while
you spoke; staccato
sentences spilling out
haphazardly. 'Sorry,
I don't know exactly
how to say this.'

I could sense it coming,
with each syllable that
slithered from your lips,
every little utterance,
and on the rare occasion
you managed it; every
single sentence

I looked at my watch,
it was quarter-past
nine before you finally
ended the torture;
'I've met someone else'

You Fucking Cunt!

I wanted to hit you,
but I couldn't bring
myself to do it, you
did your best to
provoke me though;
Telling me about
your new man, and
how much you loved
him.

An Argentinean doctor?
Good for you, now
fuck off you spiteful bitch.


The words remained
grey matter, I should
have said them, but
no - I sat and listened
to more. More staccato
shit that you tried
so desperately to dress
up; 'It's not you, it's me.
Can we still be friends?'

Can we still be friends?
Can we still be-?!


I should have left then,
but my heart wouldn't
let me. So I sat, I sat
and reminisced about
the time you and I
went down to Islington
and made love in your
dad's old van;
But that didn't change
the fact that you had
broken my heart in Milan.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

No Subject

This is the beginning
of the end, of all things
worthy to be defend-
-ed. Frozen bread is
our staple - A hefty
promise cashed in too
early to be worth
more than a slap in
the face. Lifetimes
gone to waste.

Ay bee, ay bee.
See dee, see dee.

Constructs of the
vaguely poetic
spoken in dialects
never used before.
'I find your innovations
quite pathetic, and your
rhyme schemes should
be used no more!'

Analyse the incomprehensible
if you can, if you can;
If you can't then arrange
for a series of cunning
distractions with str-
-uctur-
-al
chan-----ges
to
deceiv-
-e
the
read-
-er

I wish I had the talent
to make words never
sound the same.
I wish I had the talent
to write poetry again.

No Taxi

The thin layer of snow crunches
beneath our feet, as we walk with
great care down this old cobbled street.

Hair and shoes, tits and waists;
tonight for a time we were above
our place - Dancing through
postmodern maisons d'opium,
sporting saddles with belts and
drinking overpriced apple juice.

'What's that? Speak up babe,
I can't hear you.'

Conversations began and
ended in confusion, with
the in-between filled by
shouted pleasantries.

The hustle and bustle
of the brown man's shop
was a comforting change -
incandescent tubes of light
bathed us gently as
complete strangers and
old friends blurred into
one.

The thick layer of snow crunches
beneath our feet, as we walk with
silent trepidation on the long high street.

Steam clouds fill the air - dancing ghosts
of our burning desire clashing against the
frigid atmosphere. Yet we're still trapped
within our own Trinity-Saint Sergius, the
damned living by His rule;
Swiftian tropes-r-us.