What I can’t say

 

 

It’s the writing down of what I can’t say, that incubates monsters

octopus sliding from beach to veranda

 

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 hungover, 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 blancmange…..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.

 

It’s cruelty that super glues 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 skin fold 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 Angels 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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2 thoughts on “What I can’t say

    • Victoria Mosley says:

      Mastering poetry again!!!! That’s a bit rude isn’t it? I wasn’t aware I’d slipped ….these are old poems when I could actually feel something lol
      But thanks I guess and there are no accents on my keyboard
      Vx

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