There was a little grey man
in a little grey suit.
Shoes neat ‘n tidy.
He got up at morn
and went on the world’s way
into the orderly grey yonder.
His little grey wife worked at home
his little grey kids at school
to be like their little grey father
in the Big Grey World.
One day the little grey man died.
They put him in a little black box
buried him in a hole
and forgot about him.
The Big Grey World had other little grey men
in little grey suits
with shoes neat ‘n tidy.
I’ve got George Powers
He’s bad.
So I keep him in the back.
In the dark passages of my brain.
He’s bad.
So it’s black where he lives.
Black and dirty and I don’t like it there.
So I don’t go there.
*
Sometimes George comes out to visit.
He’s bad so he doesn’t like the light.
So he doesn’t stay long.
He fantasies about the dark but here…
He likes to cut people.
It doesn’t matter how.
He likes to hurt people.
I’ve tried so hard to hold onto this one single dream.To recall and capture fully that feeling.It’s only the day after and already the detail is lost, corroded away by time. I could probably read it again but it’s left me alone and cold. I can do nothing. As the dream came of its own accord, it has left of its own accord.
It’s actually ironic. I gave Justine warmth, gave the dream life. The dream leaves me cold and takes life of its own, fleeing from my mind.
On losing the dream.
The city gurgles, throbs.
The city’s gurgling, throbbing heart
belches forth acidic hot
steaming shit.
A messy medley of noise, people
and earth-metal. Vomit.
*
The building
sunken in the granite ground
struggling to surge free.
Up on grey, lanky pillars.
*
In the seething crack
between the buildings hull
and the earth’s body
is the alley.
*
Overcast pipes cling stubbornly
to the stoney cement sick skin
of the building.
Embracing it, chaining it to earth.
Eating towards its fleshy
dusty innards.
*
Here’s where the worst of the city huddle.
Accumulates and is the unwanted.
People, things caught in time – this time.
They are filthy
and the city lives around them
on them.
They scratch cement from the city’s waste
and devour it.
*
Here where the building
breathes out hot, acrid air
through a gauzed throat.
An airy emptiness-hum.
On and on it empties its lungs
on and on…
*
The breath awakens a newspaper’s corpse
printed with old news.
Yesterdays.
It gets up,
rustled,
from the overcast cement
and runs across the alley
dying again at the other end.
Metal musicians plead
Here I am.
Leather smeared on their bodies
black as depression.
Suppression of the city’s people.
Only the city grows.
Lives in monstrous deformity
we and it wallow in its vomit.
It feeds
devouring
sucking out
the being
lifeblood
of its creators.
The vague
yet clear bare beauty
of her bone face and cadaverous appearance.
Her eyes as shadow at midnight.
The horrid beauty of her pale skeletal hands.
And in her nails sparks of the dark universe.
Her black silken hair
woven by the maggots.
Her head
crowned with the jewel
of the night.
*
The remainder of her decaying skin
is icy as snow.
Soft and delicate as milk.
The colour as wan as ashes.
Her garment tough and leathery
as wings of the bat
cloaks her body.
*
Neither the serpent nor the raven
has her beauty.
Yet she acclaims their sadistic cruelty.
Their greed for shining eyes
and the taste of sweet
delicate maidens ankles.
*
She rests upon the graves of men
and pauses within the vaults.
Weaving masterfully her mischaped garments
and throwing them to the spiders.
Tending beds of Deadly Nightshade.
Stroking both wolf and demon.
*
Caressing man
as she passes.
Agonizing and crippling them.
Then she kisses
with red smeared lips.
Crushing their breath
and creasing their hearts.
As only a perfect
Black Rose would.
Stillness in the garden
Quiet in the garden
The storm has left us
*
Here by the door
A breeze cautiously enters
Soft swirling mingling
*
Trees are still outside
The air is clean and
new-born
*
A little breeze sighs
Only I feel its presence
All else ignores it
*
The pebbles glisten
Silver white and earth-brown
Earth washed clean of dirt
*
The garden is fresh
Yellow sunlight softens trees
Evening air and restfulness.
Sleep is hard to obtain.
The night is bright
with a moon that silvers my curtains.
But I think of other beauty.
Of things to be
and things that might be.
My answer
Her reply
always she replies.
Never she answers.
Never I ask.
Perhaps she thinks of me.
Perhaps not.
*
Galaxies swirl
stirred by God’s finger.
A planet soup
and he gives me a small want.
For her.
For the fragile hand
that I may squeeze too hard.
How I wish to spoil her
Giving much
not expecting much.
I wish for only
a small measure of love.
To have her consent.
*
She moves as a faerie
in the mist.
A sprite
in mischief.
A nymph
in the woods.
*
I move heavily
Big
an imposter in the forest
and mist.
Yes
clumsy.
I wish not to force her
merely to suggest
Maybe we will dance.