I must find my voice

I don't know anything about opera, not a thing. But I was drawn to ENO's mini opera competition and well I have to post my entry to my blog in order to enter, so here it is based on a seed story by Will Self.

I must find my voice

I must find my voice

(to civilians) cast light

(to soldiers) cast light

I must find my voice

come futures

come haunt me

(soldiers) speak       (politicians) hush

(civilians) speak       (politicians) hush

(both)     speak        (politicians) hush

(both)     speak        (politicians) hush

who is potentate?

who decides this fate?

is it science or hungry metaphor?

you have made me a guarantor for war!

I must find my voice

(to civilians) cast light

(to soldiers) cast light

I must find my voice

come futures

come haunt me

(the futures argue amongst themselves)

(civilians)marionettes!

(soldiers) puppeteers!

(civilians) empty threats

(politicians) pioneers!

(both) cast light!

(both) cast light!

this intrusion this test

this bonfire this nest

who is potentate?

who decides this fate?

is it science or hungry metaphor?

you have made me a guarantor for war!

(soldiers) we       (politicians) me

(civilians) we       (politicians) me

(both) we            (politicians) me

(both) we            (politicians) me

come futures come haunt me 

come tear me and taunt me

come closer come here

don't disappear

(the futures voices get quieter and quieter)

 

(soldiers) going       (politicians) gone

(civilians) going       (politicians) gone

(both) going            (politicians) gone

(both) going            (politicians) gone

to whom do I speak?

do I speak at all?

does my voice make a difference

does it thicken the wall?

this is lost

this is found

this is sombre ground

this is people this is homes 

this is death this is drones 

to whom do I speak?

do I speak at all?

this intrusion this test

this bonfire this nest

who is potentate?

who decides this fate?

is it science or hungry metaphor?

you have made me a guarantor for war!

low road (a guest post by my dear friend anon)

When my firstborn had learned to walk and I was working two jobs just to scrape by. 9-5 all week as a sales rep, trying to pedal a product I had no faith in. Then a sixteen hour shift in a truck, giving me time to reflect on all the bad choices and mistakes I’d made during that week.
I was twenty one years old with a wife I didn’t deserve and a son who loved me because he didn’t know any better.

She was a girl I called a friend when I was fifteen because she was way out of my league and I didn’t dare fantasise she could ever be more. I hadn’t heard from her since I first got engaged. She picked the worst time possible to come back into my life.
She’d been to Europe.
Become a successful manager in hospitality.
Lived with her boyfriend in London.
Got a tattoo.
Had an accident which rendered her barren.
Broken up.
Said she loved me all those years ago.
Asked if I ever felt the same.

That’s when the depression hit me hardest.
I believed I loved her more than my wife. Thought I would be so much happier with her. But my marriage vow was too sacred to me. Till death do us part. I couldn’t break it.
I began to wish for horrible things. Car accidents that would leave me free. Free to love another. Free from the pain in my head.
I hated myself. I would stand under the shower and slowly turn off the cold water, scalding myself as punishment for thinking so selfishly.
Eventually, I decided to do nothing. I would stay loyal and miserable.
The depression got worse. So many times I would almost drive into a tree, swerving at the last second when I thought of my son.
I began carving a pattern into the forefinger of my left hand with a rusty pocket knife, which ended up resembling a flame. On my first visit to my psychologist she asked if it represented an old flame.
More like a flame which never caught but refuses to go out.
I tried to quit my job as the sales rep, but my boss talked me into staying on.
He fired me a month later.
I stopped talking to my old friend. Stopped imagining how good life would be with her and started to realise how good my life could be as it was.
My wife stayed by my side the whole time, even though I’m sure I broke her heart. My son never stopped loving me.
He’s almost twelve now and still tells me he loves me every day.
So do my other three children.
So does my wife.

Sometimes my mind starts to wander and I wonder what if. I usually end up under the scalding shower again punishing myself for thinking like that before I get depressed again.
I’m not perfect.
But I’m happy.

I don’t know where my old friend is now.
She got married and had kids.
She had lied to me.
Was she really ever my friend?

An Edith Piaff quote comes to mind.

Farewell my heart
You are lost to despair
I will not
Give you my eyes
When you die.


" I've taken the low road and if you've done the same meet me down there by the train " Tom Waits

on Voltaire and feeling

best friend of kings

rid your daddy's name

adore Newton and inoculation

exiled

love mathematicians

escape through your pages to

Constantinople

as it twisted

it twisted

a relationship with time

my

relationship with time

don't 

clean the dust

I don't

want to clean the dust

I 

want to wipe my finger through it

through the fissures in Lisbon feeling

Gottfried's ego falter I 

want to wipe my finger

through it clean 

this fingertip in a river 

wilder than I

we are

wilder than I

4am 4:40

4am 4:40 I hear the hiss of
current coasting through the veins of
bullhead rails points aligning for the first trains Monday Monday morning unbolting the dark red double doors using a small stool to reach the drop bolts kicking the flush bolts up with my feet stacking leaflet racks with tube maps and registration forms listening to the metered steps of the first stoic commuters tapping tired oyster cards gates wheezing open the sound these small motors make not yet lost in a rush of thudding feet jackdaws gathering carefully on the fringes watching every crumb watching every crumb as branch lines and sidings awake oozing trains p.a announcements and platitudes I remind the gentleman in the plaid two button suit to stand behind the yellow line a glare a smile a glare a smile the first squeal of wheels as an eight car slinks out of 34 road slowly into the platform doors opening like a row of sleepy eyes awaking

momentum made of myth

diameter
circumference how
time post time
tears at the delicate
boundaries
laid with goodbyes
a broken mind
fierce in code collapses
forcefully feeding my eyes
with diatribe after diatribe after diatribe
diameter
circumference how
the shock has tuned to cruelty
personal attacks account
hacks
circuitry upon
circuitry
degenerative
consolation
diameter
circumference
death of love is not
like autumn
it is not synchronised
connected
two currents curl toward
two different corridors
and we listen to the walls
we
listen to the walls
circumference
diameter
radius
parameter
incline of an amateur
momentum made
of myth

lines

Photograph courtesy of Tracey Grumbach

how many geometries
without me in them reading
blank maps
with a clean mind
sediment of shadow in a delta
of lines
the
stillness of objects
withholding motion
these
gentle sentinels
calming the promise of momentum
spindles, bearings bow
to the kindness
of wood I
standing in the gateway
of a tertiary existence
catching zygotes of
philosophy on my chalk dust tongue

Hokkaido made me dream

patina
a safe distance
to contemplate the details
I learn that 32 kilometres deep
is relatively shallow
mud dark water
aching through a prefecture
Oregon, Port of Brookings harbour
swayed
by the name of its rivers
Pistol, Chetco
Curry Josephine county line swayed
I add an architrave
a ghost ship
listing
my hyperbole
minuscule
earth's axis
shifted
shortening the day by
1.8
micro
seconds
it was a school day

Thursday in April

parenthesis parenthesis
a blanket a blow torch
etching you into me as if
you were always there
in the stillness of skin
a long day
stretches into ruins ruins fused into roots the city's ink
spilt
into a delta of roads and red lights
Thursday
in April
her leopard spots like a
Picasso face peeling from the pigment
anarchic (holy)
broken (balm)

bold black italics

paper cracked tired
folded around words
under bold black italics
spirals
e
e
e
the loose
knot of that letter
in bold black italics
how I widen to pronounce
to let sound slip
around the inside of my cheeks
a balloon of vowels pregnant in my mouth
smoke stained pages how
many cigarettes
adhesive gum aged contoured calm
useless of less use
not holding together
held
these incoherent pages
full of bold black italics

symmetry, symmetry

our corridors, corridors

filled with libraries of hindsight

Escher knows, he knows

how many ways round are actually

up

chicaned by history

the fish hook in your flesh

yes yes

gills

she breathes between her ribs

she is mythical

because

she has to be

amongst the dead

threads of ivy

using stucco plastered walls

to sketch their thin

thoughts on leaving

she

spins a cue ball noun

into a pyramid of words

wishing ink

would take its shape

unassisted as the sky leaks

poems





a reading:

http://audioboo.fm/boos/740827

bare bones



Photo Copyright: James Rainsford. Used with Permission.



receipt roll messiah

steam punk chimera

God of catalogues

and credit checks

hollowed be my name

your strip mall come

your bill be won

in parliament

as it is in tax havens

give us this day our 10% percent off

forgive us our store points

lead us not to customer services

for thine is the system

the power and the profit

take my skin

in lieu of payment

see me as I am

with an armful of appliances

spine curved to the longing 

for emptiness and overdrafts

hatch me from the bones of your boardrooms

forever

and ever

amen

his loneliness my heartbeat

Atenolol his heart his heart
morning moves
in chinos and hem lines
multi storey car park
new brick slick economy of
virtue
pencil skirt smirk
hush now inbetweeners
spirit level schizophrenics
tip the bar
zip lipped sleeping bag
his home his home
Graham you have my fathers name
Tegretol he drinks he drinks
sinks into the lowest of his murmurs
cider by the litre thick with love
no needles
dual carriageway
Hemmingway without the Dakari's
he calls me a good girl, a lezzy
a sweetheart, his M4
assault rifle memories
numbed by the gasp of death he chose to take
intake
and take again
wrists scarred by the fat belly of our
indifference
how we hope
with rope with rope
he lives
she is my love,
cupped in corporate hands, I do not own her, rent her or expect her to love but she does this perpetual agreement a peace a slice amongst a maelstrom of lengthening
bullshit hits me like a skin stripped revelation of grace laced with a kiss so sweet you'd beg me to share it she loves she loves no tide no pull no shitstorm a calm autumn late summer grew our quiet bones stitched me open the horizon of a city car park watermarked pages pure porous pull me in and in
I think thick through this hope
I think thick
through this hope billowing
blue stars and my
throat

my cannibal

dust me into the soft dawn
fingers like lathes
we are all
carpenters
I flick
cigarette ash
onto the concrete pavement it falls
like a paintbrush
an old man fresh from the temple
blends it into a canvas
of earth and sky with his worn
down sandal, his slight stoop
the way
he limps
a sore hip or
just age giving shape to my detritus
this morning the bins
shook their fists as their throats
emptied into the dislocated
jaw of a machine
held for a moment
in metallic arms
then swiftly gulped, crushed
my street cannibalising itself and
me regurgitating
me

June 1961

I remember steam leaving
I was present in the particles
a guttural coo of air
draining from the bleed holes
side rods, valve gears, pistons
abstracted by the cautious hand
of post war capitol
June 1961
cut from the dying lungs
of the lower don valley
voltage
advancing down the branch lines
eager electrons
perpetuated
by circuitry and the unravelling cocoon of suburbia
metro-land
stitched to the machine of pinstriped pay checks
magnetic north of square mile sailors
everything
atomised around it
a complex
cobweb of commuters
neatly packaged in
8 car parades of necessity
weight of a man
leaning on a dead mans handle

pizzicato punks

anvil marriages
in flux bebop polemics
poli tick tick ticks
I'll demean it Charlie
you, me and Kansas City
boroughs borders bowed
to medieval guilds
privilege smuggled
beneath parliamentary prowess
high res spec
ulation
even Atlee sighed
but we
are vectors
walking bass lines
complex
syncopation straying
from cathedral steps
beyond that one square mile
ricocheting splinters
above the heads of aldermen and mayors
altered incubators
fingers curled around the neck
pizzicato punks
scroll to endpin
four quarter notes
to the bar

make your own mantra

A 9th century Nagaraja Guardstone from Sri Lanka on display at the V&A

catacomb womb

a 

plutonic self creation

an igneous

anatomy

hip thrust

atibanga

beatnik

naga raja

candlestick

purna ghata

teardrop in an upturned denture

Allen Ginsberg’s bowels

cat a comb

womb


a
plu
tonic self creation

an
igneous
anatomy

hip thrust

atibanga

beatnik

naga raja

candlestick

purna ghata

teardrop in an upturned denture

Allen Ginsberg’s bowels

fell fall fell

how the unsure wind

widens

just studs

the bare embankment

mottled

past tense pageantry

the parallels

parallels find no friction

just the smooth slow

slide of a manufactured

curve

clean you see clean

tidy

today the clouds

look like callouses

bruised by the skin

of the sky

and when that sun sets sets

sets split ends

whisper it

split ends copper strands

cross linked polyethylene

insulated orators

we are

insulated orators

What to call it?

those disparate streams David 
they ribbon into twisted hums
of soliloquies made of barns
and watching barns
geometric lines
the curve of the horizon
like the cusp of something culpably 
sublime and mathematical 
I want to feel that sweat, that salt
that tornado that bent your face to it's grid
I want to logically determine the wind
your loneliness
lyrically alive in those 
carefully 
chosen
words and diatribes 
stitched between the leanness of 
narrative
meta- narrative
mid west Mecca 
meta of autonomy
the smell of burning corn
co-ordinates of culpa 
crawling through the ligaments 
of is and is
the inner worlds we knit
and knot into a hubris of longing
how we fantasize and fetishize the high of the high we wish for 
let me crack that ball
cleanly 
knowing the bend of the breeze
the pock marked tarmac
let me not know 
of straight lines
let me breathe
in the depth 
of what
is broken
imperfect 

xy

she feeds her own fiction

firm thoughts loosen their roots

disowning the dirt

the debris of change

chapters chiselled out of undertow and myth

her mind tilled

and spilled into a scar filled river

Styx, her corridors

collide in your water

she's your daughter

dancing on the welds

and bolt holes of balance

tear those womblike walls

let her break

the banks of her own self loathing

drained

by the demolishing of love

a stray

earth

current

conducts the wake

of her imagination

time

on it’s tip toes

tired of belonging

if we were profits

shapes bend

and buck stuck

to the skin of our thin

our thinnest meaning

gleaming teeth

unsheathe

echo chambers

mouths

that crowd

around the parables

of pity by committee

we pull apart

our start

and hand it to the wind

pinned

to the politics of purpose

I ache

I ache to awake

from the gloss of our loss

of our losses

she crosses

on the ballot next to

ambivalence

antipathy and rye

caustic shrugging

drugging hope

with a cautious poison

tighten your belt

accept the hand

you were dealt

by the crooked

croupier

like platelets

a soft accumulation

of stars

the obsolete sky

abundant

spitting colour

it's an odd scar

the years end

scissors snip the stitches

not knowing

how it will heal

a half smile on my skin

a rubicon

I'm unmoved

all that seems different

is the sky

trying to find it's voice

it's tongue made of Jupiter

lips poised

clinging

to an imagined shape

as each word arises

it pops

and fizzles

stuttering into a shower of sparks

a bark

of frustration

a small

pear shaped puddle

beneath the canopy

of the station entrance

the warm

orange glow of a street lamp

reflected

a flame without a candle

amongst the yellow grid

of a parking space

and suddenly i'm

thinking about Bukowski

specifically his bare feet

his one pair of shoes

his floppy laces

have I ever seen

the Edge of myself?



*last line ripped straight outta "see here, you" by charles bukowski - his line goes "you have never seen the Edge of yourself"

my paper autumn

is it fitful

the way that pleat

of peace

that corrugated hope

form canyons in your mind?

and all that growing

growing inside growing

spring inside of winter

vowels inside of nouns

your sinuous

shape

even words

undulate

they wail

silhouette and outline

what it is

and it is

it is

somehow

in this accordion fold

in this leaf

a radial spectrum

my

paper

autumn

walking into sound

Rain Dance by Tera Zajack

toward polaroid doorways

the gasping mouths

of windows

washboard walls

and yes

the rain

it's

leaning

I don't need stairs

I take the slow

slope

over cobbles that are really

stepping stones gathering to roost

I am inside the instrument

walking into sound

that mouthpiece arch

the closed

lips of memory

 

 

Offered as part of a poetics prompt challenge over at Dverse Poets inspired by the art of Tera Zajack with thanks to Brian Miller

not a poem just a shift

If I could just
get through this shift
I’d write
a poem
about something more than this station
or what people sound like
as they rush through this instrument

PA

“The Victoria line is currently part suspended between Walthamstow Central and Victoria with Minor delays on the rest of the line due to a person ill on a train at Kings Cross. Tickets will be accepted on local bus services”

I try to say it in one breath, I get as far as “person” before sucking a lungful of air in and attempting to continue

I sound
like a concertina

Take two

PA

“The Victoria line is currently part suspended (small breath) between Walthamstow Central and Victoria (small breath) with Minor delays on the rest of the line due to a person ill on a train earlier at Kings Cross (big breath try not to cough) Tickets will be accepted on local bus services”

Beep beep

Service update from service control the Victoria Line now has Severe delays I repeat the Victoria Line now has severe delays service control out

Ok..

PA

“There are currently severe delays on the Victoria Lone due to a person (due to a person what?.. )

Breathe

PA

“There are currently severe delays on the Victoria Line due to a person.. ill.. on a train earlier at Kings Cross”

A Stock
S Stock
412 hold at Aldgate please, hold at Aldgate
This is information only, please use the ticket machines
Would you like a hand?
Touch your oyster card on the yellow circle
Just push the gate
Push the gate
Push it
No not pull
Push
There is no need to speak to me like that madam
Stop swearing

PA

Please keep your belongings with you at all times and report any unattended item to a member of staff or a police officer

Beep beep

Service update from service control the Victoria line now has minor delays, minor delays, service control out.

Okay..

PA

“The Victoria line currently has minor delays due to a person ill on a train earlier at Kings Cross”

All the fours at Farringdon can you hold there please
Did you say how much is a monthly one to five?
£180.50 Sir
Just push the gate
Push the gate
Push it
No not pull
Push
Where?
Take the Metropolitan line to Finchley road, then change for the Jubilee line southbound to Westminster take the river exit you’ll see the London Eye across the water and Big Ben behind you
For St Paul’s cathedral you want St Paul’s it’s on the Central line
Last train from Baker Street departs at eleven minutes passed midnight
Your welcome

Service update from service control there is now a good service operating on the Victoria line, I repeat, a good service now operating on the Victoria line service control out

PA

“ There is a good service oeprating on all London Underground lines”

Just push the gate
Push the gate
Push it
No not pull
Push

and up

her eyelashes || driftwood splinters
in and out
with the tide withthetides 
when her
mascara runs ||  it runs like a river 
her box canyon mouth
lures wild words
just || long enough 
to tame them
with each sharp || intake of breath
she swallows || enslaves
ghostsclingtoherthroat
until the pyre || of her poem
smokes them out || and up
and up

and up

4am veins no ego

4am veins their 
extra
pulses
pith pith
push the pith 
our anodyne
mementos 
mimic the season
with less 
imagination than the trees
who's dividends 
are shared
with tarmac and tyre treads
no sell sell sell
a circle
a swell where
sacred
is transient
an eddy 
an altar
how the leaves join 
in
no ego

Neruda knew the Just Is

Neruda knew the Just Is

how it hangs

between clavicles and vowels

and illuminates the half cut city skyline

how it howls

and caws

how it sits

on a dead poets hill

and looks out

like a sentry

or an angel made of bricks

canals like slit

veins bleed

through the buildings

the tallest i

I've ever seen

blooming buds the shape of

satellite dishes

wishes

of a new age where the page

is a punch card and a key fob

Richard rolls his rizla

Richard rolls

his rizla

carefully around the cut price duty free 50 gram

pouch

of Golden Virginia

£4.20 from his man he says

I ask about his Mrs

a sigh as he sinks

into the old

brickwork beneath the dying

hanging baskets

bone

cancer chemo blood

in her urine

"Marconi Rapier missiles"

falls from his

lips

in a rhythmic haze

a glimpse

of what he was

before

they haven't considered taxidermy

currents and

crosscurrents

in the maelstrom of this vivid morning

in it's restlessness stillness beating

on the door to come in

smuggled in the tips of pencils in

the spheres of ball

point pens

verbs

and nouns congregate

a quiet coalition of corridors

arrange themselves around you

some kind of

embrace takes place

some kind of grace

offers it's hand it's window it's desk

and rests

diodes composed in rows

of uniform current

electrons speak

terminal to terminal

language seeps from cables

from chairs and tables secret

conversations machinations

they

plot

amongst the rot

of our festering values to impart their

frustrations their

observations I wish they could

speak the teak

table top and it's compadres

their

eyewitness accounts

of our

tendency to dodge profundity

in favour of ease the trees fuck

they could talk

of the way we walk...by

they haven't considered taxidermy

death by needle clean and legal

sell the heads

of the dead

to oligarchs to basking sharks

eager

to hang their status on a wall

blind

to the blood spilling drip drip drop

onto mahogany furniture

the maid wipes it clean every morning before thawing

her heart

on a radiator her needs greater

numb must drum

her pulse from time to time

an anticrime

as some might say

I don't have words, do you?

commute

harbour lights anchoring transience
to train rails
shuttle swarm swell
swerve
the dying skyline viewed
from a perspex pew
an urban
congregation
compartmentalises

alphabet to alphabet

kinetic incantations
tattooed into the wind
embroidered with the fresh
zest of meeting arm
in arm, alphabet
to alphabet, cathodic ink
infusing circuitry with language
grease dripping from
well oiled vowels
forming like still
flames, like waves inlaid
with accidental hieroglyphs
raw myth
mixing
with electrons

articulate pavements

trying to trace the blood trail back

just ends in Jackson Pollock

suburbs no longer indelible

huddle together, shoulder

to shoulder

our transient resident status

rubber stamped, as articulate pavements

speak with more brilliance than any politician

of the carcasses of buildings

and the weight of feet

of burning bins

24hr courts use law

as a communal comfort blanket

poet laureates call us

to our knees

all the boroughs I’ve glimpsed

through the perspex of a double-decker bus

all the high streets

that have blurred into terraced matrixes

now leaning through my TV

a beginners guide

to citizenry

bookmark still

in the index

fine lines

in twists of paint
fat
on the canvas
in the carnage of crooked ideology
in the comfortless
gulf
of addiction
fine lines
Kings cry
in church pews
famine
perpetually
homogenized
fine lines
our cultural cortex imbued
by the mathematics
of constant
media
literate
and educated
spree killer bloodshed
torpedo speed of a shutter lens
pull focus! pull focus!
fine lines
CEO's send aides
to the dry cleaners
Cynthia
on her shoulder
Benefits
Supervisor
Sleeping
fine lines

18 across

walking through a four car train on an eight car run in an oblong full

of the suited and booted, the margins of their manners

slimmed and tenuous, I stitch my way through the carriages like a clumsy ballerina

like coarse twine trying to thread its way through silk

I dink the corner of a boutique paper bag

its owner clasps it to her shins

surreptitiously smoothing

its freshly formed creases 

I shuffle my feet around laptop bags and briefcases, I notice zip pocket pen holders

empty of pens, I press my work boots down

onto the toes of a woman staring studiously at her crossword

she turns her head

her grey flecked fringe sways

pen still pressing on the black and white squares

I touch her shoulder and say sorry, a muted sentence falls to the floor and flinching

she retreats 

back to 18 across

at the end of the fourth car, into the rear cab, I join a resting driver

he unfolds a seat from the wall, tapping it with a hand full of sovereign rings

I sit, looking out

of the widescreen window

watching track

roll away from me

as if I'm 

rewinding myself somehow

we talk about death at 90mph

about signals and fag breaks

the hegemony behind us

disappearing

cathedral

a cathedral builds itself
inside my body
stained glass windows break
into the bloodlight of my gut
my ribs a vaulted ceiling for whatever
I am
now
peace
 in this coagulating mutation
peace
in the simplicity of time
moving on
 

tessellating time

Photograph by Neil Alexander

 

 

tessellating time
dissipating movement
twisting through the hues
of breathing in
and breathing out
eyes parked perched
in their sultry 

sentry sockets
in the stillness 

of  liquid
in the hush 

of the flow

offered as part of the penultimate One Shot Sunday over at One Stop Poetry   

 

discreetly

she does this discreetly

it goes to the core of coping

your inside yourself

your stone blue spinal column

not able to look out

to challenge the status quo of

being

to change from theories into a formula for breathing 

Artwork by Bonnie of Original Art Studio

lights hung high like
nervous bystanders
shape of the room
confused
the whitewashed
plaster board
finds it's hinges
and swings
in
where people
stand hands sunk
into pockets
staring at the
vortex
on the wall
clandestine hypnotists
hiding
in the pigments

Offered as part of Friday Poetically hosted by Brian Miller over at One Stop Poetry

you drip away baby (parts one,two and free)

you drip away baby

through the blues///new shoes

you slip away

along my shifting seams

the landscape re-arranging re-enraging

same old themes

you drip away baby

through the blues///new shoes

you slip away

along my shifting seams

the landscape re-arranging re-enraging

same old themes

was it

was it <> we-spent

was -it-<<>>-well-spent

was it mine at all?

shifting seams baby

same old themes

I'll fight not to give you that

tender hurts

I'll have to fight not to give you that

you drip away baby

cold blood on warm skin

just slip away baby

from underneath and in between

same old seams baby

shifting themes

tender hurts baby

you drip away

as you remember me

as I remind you

you rolled in it

your role in it

its role in me

complexity

for the heart unbroken anymore

for my hearts not broken anymore

still you haunt me almost flaunt me

stroking the back of my mind, now my mind is revolving

you drip away

through the blues///new shoes

you slip away

along my shifting seams

you slip away

a long day daze smoothed

out

into one big line of excitement

I'm all built

to explore further virtues

almost like the shadows stepped back

leaving one big white patch

and I froze

fingers allbent sharp not sure what to do stay

still

I'm thinking about staying still

got a little gap of serenity

my ears are gliding

on the thermals you create

my shields colliding

with the aliveness you awake

lots of thoughts i guess

its still tomorrow

i'm just re-watching re-peating the pattern

and singing in the background

your sweet voice surrounding

even if these thoughts run into others

its O.K

they can clash in the corridor

like two arch-enemies and still

find a way to continue walking

in the opposite direction

but maybe only for today

amongst all this generosity

that leaves me crooked, crick in my back

I'm surrounded by things to make and do

and the tools I need are all here too

so what am i waiting for

waiting for nothing

but its an endless comfortable place

not exactly a space

strange night

I dont remember the daylight

just the weight and the pressure

and the grace of the measure

deadline

straight line

she twists like I was me

walks past pouncing.

time

and your still there

still in my hair

long enough to catch you

strong enough to match you

look how

its wrong

these little tiny pieces

i wished

i'd payed attention

cared to mention

how sly the cut

how deep the wound

took a while to find to drip away baby

I wished

i'd saved the tension

through the blues///new shoes

you slip away

time falls sideways

slowly

she never really came back

first time she opened the door

she knew what it was for

and she kept walking

because she never had before

there were circles

kept on bringing you back round

but she never really came back

first time

she landed running

fast and straight

time falls sideways

slowly

through the blues///new shoes

you slip away