thirty summer

carving words out of willows

Month: August, 2013

The End Above

A flower or a phone booth.
It makes no difference to me.

It doesn’t work like that these days, though.
It has to fall into place with rhyme and metre
and dare you stray, dare you teeter
and watch it all fall apart.

Doomed to an existence of mindless
melding manipulations and
topped off by insult, injury, impedance.

A flower, a farewell, a phone booth or a phoney smile.
It makes no difference to me,
as long as it’s not left untitled
in the closet
or on my doorstep.

A flower and a farewell.
That’s what it looks like in the end.

And we sew threads that leave
little ridges in our shirtsleeves
where hearts were supposed to be.

A phoney smile and a curt word
where love and longing should be.
It makes no difference to me.

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Take all these little words

Take these little words
of living,
of love,
of lust,

of losing it all
and crumple them up

into little balls
like another messed up drawing
and
put them in a pile

and watch

as she sets them ablaze.

Watch as she
burns it all down

to the ground —

to ashes
that catch in the wind

and smell like
campfire memoirs.

Then,
stand there
in a murmuring stupor

as she gives you
more words to write
then you could ever imagine,

and less than a
lifetime to write them

as she says

“I love you.”

You never needed those
old words anyway.

They were just filler
until you learned how
to live,
to love,
to lust…

Sunsets are precious

The crashing waves,
the sounds of change.

Cymbals explode and
the music changes

Jazz in May becomes
Angels in August
and I become new, reborn

into
sounds, smells, sights.

Sunsets are precious
and not liked by some.

The singing of a thousands souls
linger
as Sunday singes sorrowful skies.

What does the moon look light
from London?

I wonder

as I plan to paint peacefulness
penetrating perfection.

The touch

The touch
is innocent
but unwanted
just the same.
To be the man
who braves
the morning
to shake hands
with the homeless
as they file in
for a free hot breakfast.
The only world
it has ever changed
was my own.

“Once was”

In the mundane ways we move
through this prolonged charade on stage
and through vintage camera lens noise
we only think we know the Real McCoy.
Our generation is the last generation
every time and with each new one
we watch as youth bends and trembles
with tears, blood, ambition and fuck-all
These souls wretch with the music
and grind on each other with half-lit cigarettes
pressed between ruby red lips
like some neon re-envisioning of the Flapper.
In the mundane way we breath in each breached word
that we call one another out on honest notions.
A generation – mine, now gone to the wayside
and as I age with the times, I feel that
the dusty corpses of “once-was” only now fills
the heads of the tight-skinned grins of
“you don’t know what it’s like.”
but
in the end, we all were “once was.”