Moon -

I’m in a moon mood -

I fade, I shrink, I shy,
But in time with a night full of stars
called friends,
I am happy,
I am enormous
and people gaze.
I swell, I wink, I rise,
they become crazy,
they tell me I am timeless,
they come out just to see me.
Every night
in the same sky
to greet me
"Your highness."

Green Park (version I) -

In a city with sea gulls rorking -

And fat thrumming bumblebees –

And a swollen green river –

The sun smoothes over its upturned belly,

Running over every roll and ripple and wave and slimy rock

With golden fingers.

It bounces off of car hoods and crisps packets,

It stops and beams on the painted gates of the park

Before reaching down to play in the prickled grass

And the pages of books.

It slinks behind the shoulder of the bank and touches the shiny skin of teenagers -

Their bottles and guitars.

The sun admires everything –

It jumps on the backs of dogs and flakes off benches –

It buries into eyes

and slides lazily over watches.

Everything in the park is smothered in sunshine –

Humming with light -

All happy and content as that fat river.

One about you -

he’s not even gone away!
he’s there!
he’s in the same room, on a screen.his distance is 4 weeks, or a holiday or he’s shopping -

My body misses him quite literally -
when’s he’s there it is as if a charming imp or devil has come to waltz,
in the flesh he speaks volumes about the tired philosophies of duty old men in dusty debates -
and he wants to waltz?!

I hold him close as those wretched philosophies -
but when he’s gone the old men and the books come back -
all is real -
He’ll be back,
but I’m always a sucker.

A SMILE ALL OVER -

My smile often reaches past my feet 

dragging behind my like a great, clumsy, 

well meaning dog.

I would dance -
well, I would wriggle a sort of wriggle,
my walk is a certain kind of walk,
so my wriggles are certain, too.
Everywhere I would go I would move
LOUDLY.

Everything would pop,
trees, lights, my music,
colours and words would jump to greet me at the door
like I’d been away all day long.

I remember so clearly the overwhelming sensation of laughter - pure laughter -
of breathing and beating and moving without intention -
being without effort!

I remember when the leaves first fell -

I remember when the first leaves fell -
golden, full of dread.
All around me was decay,
when the leaves began to drop I looked around
I saw my friends, my family, my lover -
but the friends like the leaves curled up and yellow’d
and my family fell also.
And my lover was a distant wind from far away,
going all four directions at once.

But the worst was the leaves - they stayed.
The way they clung around my ankles,
swamped every pavement,
each nice place I would sit in summer under the sunlight - leaves would lie regardless.

And now?
the wind only stirs the leaves, as if to drive them away,
the leaves form mulch, litter,
they make piles of lifelessness -
they form beds, tempting things.
The sky is grey, the leaves are here,
and all they can do is fester and pile -
until the trees take them back.

The Author -

"I hate myself so very much,"
I said, like a town motto or a church prayer -
I sigh afterwards, “AMEN.”

Here I come,
an angel, with wings of fatigue and
familiarity,
bringing good news.
I didn’t kill myself, I didn’t take myself away.
"do not be afraid."

This angel casts a long shadow, it hails all the way back to when I was six -
all small, already tired.
"I don’t know what I think."
I am the angel of halting -
I stop my self all day long, as is my duty.

A CONSTANT HEADTILT -


I spent my life in mirrors -
trying to coax myself out
from behind fingerprints,
white head splatters
and lipstick residue.
It took so long to find me -
I hid behind long hair and pale eyes -
Soon, I found myself in
postcards -
museums -
magazines -
I would hide all day - but I’d talk with my eyes -
those useful icy eyes.
When asked who I was, I would laugh and sigh, and look.

(And now?
When I walk in the room there is a visual explosion
- I’m everywhere at once,
I surround my foes and friends
and I look -.)

Dear Family -

Dear Ma’, Da’ and Poppy -

I do a lot of things all the time. I can’t quite remember when you first held me - but the sensation to me is as flying to birds. Inseperable, unthinkably real. You’re all real, I’m pleased to report. When you’re near you feel like the walls of the house - you are the hous, the pieces of a chess set, you are the cutlery at christmas dinner. And when I feel far away, your memories ae TV programmes, reruns, specials everyday.