there the lines cross - poem

There the lines cross and some form of horizon
balances,
but the distance ebbs and flows
as physics surely did not intend

this room swells and spins
with a blown-glass sharpness layered
over everything – focusing the detail
briefly as it whirls

will it ring if I strike it?
one crystal note of clarity?
or will it shatter into eye-reflecting fragments?

dazed on white Egyptian cotton –
or not – I can but wish –
as planes and virtues of what they say
reality is, meld with a flattened
one dimensional moment

some lag of time, in vision
from here to here – a dragging,
colours stretched in supple streaks
and objects now unleashed
from their moorings are free to exist
wherever they choose

the rules for everything
for words for thought for movement
have slipped a little
beyond the edge of memory
I can feel them pressing in
but can’t yet prize them out

leave them there then
furring up

nothing matters and neither do I
so I knock
with my thoughts upon the glass clear edge
and listen to it sing

He is Conflict - a poem

He is conflict,
confusion stings his mouth,
angry words bruise and graze his skin
just as, all those years ago, R’s fists
did on Brighton beach. Seagulls,
a brass band and Punch and Judy.
The ice cream burning as it carved
a slow, smooth path down his arm;
Because you’ve not licked it fast enough,
R said, though your mouth’s
big enough to stop a bus.

Not a fist, though.

Blood pink on the vanilla,
the distant summer of buckets and spades
where the days pinched him in
and he couldn’t help
flying those thoughts like a kite
streaming behind him

where they flap still,
slapping the face of anyone
who tries to get close,
slowing him
pulling him
dragging him
back to the time

where the lies are and sharp fingers
dig and scratch, and he no longer
remembers specifics of who is to blame

only the blood from his mouth,
salt against sweet,

the taste of his childhood
punched out,
red against white,
and the sun’s hard light on the sea
stings.

Confessions - a poem

Your lies mesh,
cat-cradled tongue caught up
and almost stilled

but wearied words,
nothinged with weight,
fall at our feet

to be kicked aside
or gathered into piles
as ammunition.

Ticks of time peel off
and crumble into bright white
flakes – marking our pathway

here.

The fast relay of tightening
pain that pulses in a heart beat
fills your thoughts,
and mine,

till all attempts
to block it out
are lost.

Your fingers grasping,
clutching,
the outward

over-riding effort
to reclaim
when sin calls out;

confessions barely noted,
mislaid, as through the walls
the voices leak
and footsteps echo,

cornered visions fragment
in the full-on glare of focus,
as if all knowledge could be
questioned in these few words.

The talismans,
stored and hoarded
later to be
dragged out – an evidence of deeds,
our crimes

whose surfaces vibrate -
ripples circle
circle out to missing edges,
shimmer in some presence yet to be

recorded.

These bitter tokens, strewn about,
are scuffed by pairs and pairs
of trampling feet whose
echo spreads – a widening stain
of sound
that aches.

Copper-mouthed
the hasty tang
tongues familiar teeth explored

a warmth, degrees unknown as yet
but measured,
understood and stored
a sigh within a sigh.

Bold frustrations
wrestled
knocked about – tied up

broken in with fantasies
remarked upon
pulse between us
sounded out and later mocked.

All paths
lead here;

we cannot turn away.