Regret

In the ear of one Goddess
There is a hidden cave,
And there within as men confess
The ground is golden paved.

I left a doubloon on the lip
Where cave and daylight met,
And on departing, memory slips,
Redeemed by one regret.

Topaz

Underneath two ribs
Of a lunar-like mountain
You exist.

Underneath incipient
Residual intent they buried
With ritual laments,

With your future there
Scattered, Time’s amulets
Mattered, these grimly

Iridescent moments
Stuck in weathered endgame
Frames of dunes and rocks,

Like emerald in oil,
Like a child when locked
Within the habitual dragon’s eye,

Though you cannot burst through
To our labours of today,
However much we may wish

And no matter how much
We think about this,
There, you exist.

I travel to that mountain,
Dull-brown slopes
Smooth and exposed

By denial, or worse,
Colluding through
The exclusion of truth,

The Athabaskan sun.
In my mind sometimes,
Touching barren surfaces,

The inner host’s recipient,
Tomb of an empty womb
Imprinted in my thumb.

Amethyst gates to a park
Stay resolute and fast,
By hematite chains, padlocks

And the timings of hearts,
Some are beating here still,
And some we can’t restart.

Last Armadillo

When the last remaining animal –
Or statistically likely to be
Insects pestled from their
Trillion kingdoms into
One final fly’s resilience,
Or persistence in a millipede,
Entrenched, like a final
Ardent campaigner armoured and
Protesting against a railroading
While his friends from
Treeline canopies all fell,
Curled in a hopeless ball,
In otiose defiance
Against humanity, and defence
Instead of deference to
Authority, Ark-reversal,
Last armadillo, last pangolin,
Last bat, turtle, last blue fin,
What will happen then
Upon this faithful reel,
When dejected, I am
Reincarnated
Upon a karmic wheel.

Soul Coast

My feet are a foreign land
As I stand where surf relapses,
Whitecaps are my family
And encapsulate with great
Succinctness
And sadness

My lifetime of experiences,
An escapologist, an emphasis,
My bare toes in saline curls,
Where is my soul’s house
In this here and now?
I too loved the feet of her odes,

As measured as moonlight
With feminine verbs,
I caught a punctured headlamp
From a lane that would curve
And chicane until it meets
A coastal kerb, above

The haunting cove,
And I am compelled,
Once again, to restart,
To daylight’s return.
On periwinkle sands,
A mustard-coloured heart.

Pebble Poem

This poem is a pebble
Or on the pebbled path
To homelessness, alone,
An unpolished stone
In the shape of
Inevitable loss,
Where barefoot ramblers
Wince and stumble
From discomfort rubbing
Against their soles,
Between camomile toes
And a heart of
Lemongrass.
Reminiscence aloft
From parabolic domes
On domiciles all tossed
Into an open ocean’s
Samphire-scented arms.
Someday, far in the future
These words will be unearthed
By a scientist’s assistant
Who later came to harm,
And where then will
A coast resurge, wild
Spume, renewed oaths,
Where will be their gardens
Beside the stony path.

This pebble is a poem
And in my hand, a gift;
Transient, impermanent,
Miracles are not
The genesis of men,
But germination,
That’s godliness,
Oak from a seed,
Galaxies from an atom,
A poem inside me,
The rest is axiomatic.

Immolation

I set my soul on fire,
Alive on a pyre of
Dry hyacinths and
Sad gladioli dreams,
A blind man’s
Sandals, and shoes
Without seams.
By a scruff
Of the neck my flames
Took hold of and wholly
Captured that beach,
Held up like a brace
Of heaven’s partridges
With only a tidemark
A cause for retreat.

A scandal for a year or two
And then the villagers
And media and cartels
Will sleep. We are all
Victims, one way or
Another, of sins.
A distant windmill withers.
In a dream sunk
Within a different dream
Your hand came out
Of my mouth like a tongue,
Like a mythical petrified snake
From a deep sunless cave
And for the first and only time
I was made complete.

Paradox

If I die
Does that fly,
(Industrious in my boardroom-soul),
Die too?

The answer lies in morning truths;
I have seen too much death
To live without the absolutes
Of moths and fly-wing truths.
Await ahead, the multiplicity of universes
Wait renewed,
For the fly lives on without me,
But that singularity buzzing
In my mind’s
Unhealthy eye
Is discontinued,
And so the two states
Unfold together,
Uncomfortable together,
Yet necessary ever since
The primordial glue,
Made endless as Pi
When considering as I
Pulled the duvets of truth
Over my view
Of all the possibilities
Latent, residual,
In me, and in you.

Pigeons On The Gate

I crave an end to endless days.

This season must be Spring.
I have just witnessed a return
Of two boisterous
Libidinous
Courting pigeons.
When I open a door
They act above suspicion;
A flurry of downy-grey feathers
And chesty burrs under
Intentions Nature has hidden.
A dog is defending her right
To galvanise all dust and dirt,
She chases her own tail
As though extraneous.
We are much the same
Through heaven and earth.

I caused all this
With my senses, with my
Tick-tock tick-tock
Effervescence surfacing
In defiance of my
Self-sabotaged demise.
But pigeon, and dog,
Also a headless chicken,
You are complicit, too,
Existing in my field of view.
The garden not long since
Waterlogged
is now is my synagogue.

I flirt just as those pigeons
With the edge of spiritual
Inhibition.
Back to my yard-broom,
Back to my shelving.
This air is the same air
Of a twenty-year old’s depression,
His lonely, self-misunderstanding
Breath. Unfaltering in your
Hungry unhappiness;
Dear adolescent self,
Let go of the fallacies
Surrounding you;
I have not advanced,
I have not progressed.
I dance with the dust
And the dust is my death.