It’s the writing down of what I can’t say, that incubates monsters
Octopus sliding from beach to verandah
Aliens gliding across an English lawn
children turned into vampires around a Guy Fawkes fire.
In trying to create a mystery from your ordinariness I faltered,
slipped and stumbled on the pavement of your shallow clichés
made scars that ache and welts to mirror the fragrance of your skin.
The perfection of outer casing left me hung-over,
fingers blinded by sleepless nights of non – events,
body cringing from the battering to come, as I courted profanity.
Still the blame of failure clings under nails,
and all the washing,
all the washing, to no avail.
It’s the realization of who I can’t be, all the “can be’s ‘that are expected,
blazing a trail of destruction through these middle class streets
leaving cindered beds and hopes binned like old newspapers .
The things I can’t say rise like the image of a litany, long remembered,
chiming in the brains of dead nuns, pink blamange .click of worry beads.
I was never more sure of nothing as it echoes in the cellular memory of
dying stars still visible in these orange city nights as pulsars,
lending some kind of eternity to this impeachable generation.
Wherever I look poets emerge from cracks in the fabric selling
their prophecies to the hungry emptiness like ice cream cones,
dripping at the extremities.
Its cruelty that superglues this bright successful globule of society
where I dream my out of control scenarios……..
It’s the fragility of trust beyond words, words escaping like steam under pressure
It’s the movement of air from a still life breeze; the apples in a bowl I painted yesterday, a sudden gesture never to be recaptured.
It’s the writing down of what I can’t say.
For courage is a minefield of prostitution which teeters on the skinfold of truth
and all that is worth the telling has never been told,
and you who have tried to touch me fail in the twilight .
For I am lost in the seduction of Angel’s breath rising and falling……..
I am lost in the allure of unknown galaxies, rising and falling……….
Yes, I am lost in the invisible metaphor of “might have been”
While the world revolves in its worn out symbolism,
and it’s the writing down of what I can’t say,
that incubates monsters.
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