Burying Love

I have sat up with the dead
all night, inhaling incense all
night, an attempted illusion
of flowers.

You do not speak ill of the dead, perhaps
out of reverence, or guilt, or
shame, for how important
are the wounds that you hide
compared to what lies before you,
transcendental.
You do not question
the act of passing, or allude to
its resemblance to escape.

And you pick only
the white flowers, carefully
averting your eyes from the red,
for the dead must be
buried in peace, left
without a stain of mortality
at all.

And you hope, maybe then, the dead
will leave you alone.

Words not intended to be poetry

I don't know why I'm writing this down.

I made these stars and put
them in your eyes so that they
sparkle when they gaze at me and I
can feel a little like a goddess.

This is a bit like confession, and
it's stupid because I can't
rhyme or reason or create
coherence for all to see all I
do is shuffle these pictures in my mind - a
dark brown foot in a neon-lit room perhaps
or the curve of a smile.

If I asked you to yield all your secrets
what would you show me? Would you
show me the rawness of sinew the bleak-
ness of thoughts would you shatter
away all walls and suck me in so deep so
deep that all that remains of me is a
tint in your blood a tune
in your head that you cannot
hum cannot forget?

This is a bit like confession and it's
meaningless really like when you drop to
your knees in the rain hands clasped in fervent
prayer although you never knew a god
or scripture, you make up the words as if
words were your only escape, a hopeless
poet without a purpose, a child
with nowhere to go.

And the abyss gazes into you then and you
become a little like the abyss and then
a little more and what's
wrong in that is it that you cannot
break into flowers anymore?

This is the bit like confession and
it's absurd because I look for
songs in crashing silence because this
flesh requires no words no music no rhythm
in iridiscence
in bursting in flames like insane super-
novas they
need not create
art.

And love is just a four-letter word and
so is fuck and so is fool how far
did you believe in those stories they
told you as a kid what
is it that makes you sleep now?

And so, you know, this
is a bit like confession but it's
made to make no sense to you
or you or anyone of you, I
don't know why I'm writing
this down
at all.

Littleboypoem

What poetry do I write for you? How well
do you elude rhyme - too silly, too
trivial too clumsy to gather
in words. Poetry for you must be
poetry for winter afternoons, paper
cups of watery coffee and
half-burnt cigarette
aftertaste in your mouth. Poetry for
you, as you shake your hair
loose in the evenings, your
eyes like chasing fire-
flies in the dark. You, in pictures
with laughing strangers, caught
in the corner of the frame - the little
mad boy. You, quietly
sneaking into dreams.

Poetry for you must be played on guitars
at night on a terrace, over conver-
sations on sparkly blue
fish in the sky. Poetry for you
will stop in mid-line
and laugh at itself
for pointlessness.

Poetry
for you will never suffice,
like the awkward gap between
laughters, when words are
too wrong. Poetry for you, like
so many things to be said
and so few excuses to start. Poetry
for too little time before we
forget, poetry for you
must be silence.

Your Ex-Lover is Dead (draft)

It started with a rrrrring.
This dawn is like ice and water-
colour pink outside my window, my
walls still dark and this morning
started with a ring.
They didn't need
to tell me but they called, they are
thoughtful that way.

Your ex-lover is dead.

Do you remember, was it another
birth when you bunked maths
tuition to watch him play at a fest his
friends so much older the little park by your
school where he touched his tongue
to your wrist that icecream
guy in the corner you
thought was Father
Christmas? Do you still hide
your blush when a passing
classmate mentions his name oh
when did you grow up
so much?

They didn't need to tell you but they
called. Your ex-lover is dead.

In a fit of summernight passion I had
given you all my childhood
dreams all my empty hours in
return of your
smile your silly schoolboy smile the pool
of sweat glistening in the hollow
of your throat. I was a child,
thoughtless and now
I cannot rest, these afternoons
make me shudder like a broken
conchshell I cannot hear my
footsteps anymore I have
bartered them for glitter glitter
glitter faded so long ago.

They didn't need to tell me that my ex-
lover is dead.

If I didn't exist, would you have
dreamed me?
I had dreamed you, I
built you up like a scrapbook with
memories, crumpled cigarette paper and
markerpen rainbows, built you up
till you were unreal, like dream, built
you up till my grubby fingers
could not touch you. So much star-
dust one could go blind! But now
you live in other people's dreams, a
stranger, or are they your
own? Dreams I do not recog-
nize, fingers that have sought salvation
in the voluptous perfume of many
other skins, washing over my sixteen-
year-old chewing gum
aftertaste since. As have I, as I
cannot imagine the timbre
of your voice on my phone anymore, there's
nothing left to owe or return, we are
strangers.

They didn't need to tell me, I knew
my ex-lover was dead.

And who let you in here this
morning leaning against the dark of the wall
your arrogant eyes undoing my drowsy
languor, accusing
accusing of what, what
right do you have to
demand? I turn my eyes away and there's
the smell of blood in my
room, your merciless grin hangs
in my air and there are
tears, scorching, tears I
refuse to cry. Who let you here
in my head, you, half-wasted
teenage narcissus, who
let you become the demon I cannot forget?

They didn't need to tell me but
they called. They are
thoughtful
that way.