Spiral

In the Autumn of my thoughts,
I poured my exploring self
Into one of my known past lives
Where somehow I became caught
Inside the awful seven lies.
Not the life where you
Track me back to a
Red-throated gecko’s crest
In my headwear,
And not the life
Where poems were tied
By one red ribbon
To my samurai chest;
No, deeper again,
To where our wagons petrified;
This is the clearing
And this is the song,
A place we are nearing
Where we do not belong;
Here are the stones
And here are the flowers,
Though petals have withered
And the stones block each hour.
They visit here in their hundreds,
Luxury coaches, air conditioning,
One hundred students
With pre-conditioning
And pink pleated curtains.

My meditative ability
Underneath here,
As much as an oyster and eyeless,
Shucked for humanity’s
Gut and its gears.

Time is a spiral
We surf southwards on,
God’s corkscrew pulls out
To produce the Big Bang.

I can tell you, all physicists,
What’s on that other side;
No more nor less
Than my lost love’s
Champagne-scented sky.

Strawberry Moon

A cocktail dress,
A horse’s head;
Against my nape
Your touch and
Delicate feminine
Breath is a hair’s
Breadth away from
Enunciating
Bare thoughts
Like waves
In a Zen-master’s
Garden of sand.
Your sequined shoulder
Where I remained
Scintillated like stars,
Light years of movement,
Energies and efforts
Traversed the blue space
To be diffracted and
Prismed as they infiltrated
With gravity and grace,
Held by the wide eyes
Of midnight skies
In summer, for a moment
With irresistible finesse.

Venus is observed,
Bright oscillation,
We moved through stables
As two silhouettes
While horses slept
And dreamt of reverting
To equine wildernesses
Replete with carrots
And mallow-heads,
Their upper lips
Flehmened from the sense.

An orangery for dreams,
We danced beneath
Denuding beams;
Nothing in this life
Is as it seems.
I bit my tongue
And the future
Unravelled slowly,
With profound
Musicianship
Like eternal bows
Slowly over strings
On the bridges
Where lunar-illuminated
Violas and violins
Reverberate with love.
A cumberbund,
Penumbral eclipse,
Strawberry-scented
Lips kissed, knowing
The morning steals
Potential arts
Just as the night
Endeavours to
Blanche nature and would
Deny her daily craft,
Her plethora unweilding.

All will revert to
The awful normality
Where we began;
A cocktail dress,
An empty bed.
Some thoughts are better
Left unsaid.