tokens

the element of surprise

not at all what she thought it would be -
the handholding and vase collecting.
instead a pertinent question and the
questing
for an honest action amongst the blades of grass.

each curlicue of misplaced terror
and the longed-for scent of the missing piece
made me feel like you were coming back just in time for the solution

why was it that as we watched each other over the abandoned instruments
and hope stood in the way of the purpled bruise
i still reached out and pulled your head to my shoulder

and forever being such a long way off
and unthinkable in the current climate,
we still asked each other for the tokens that would let us
sleep.

mantlepiece

let all the time go
to the man in the tower on high
there is no hope in loving and
no hope arising to the blue sky
but if you know
then it comes from the
clock on the mantlepiece

why do the children laugh
when the world is in trouble and pain
oh if memory's a curse then why live it all again

and it ends
but in the time of the rainbow's sigh
will we all meet
and tremble at the
flower pinned to your ear


fly fly fly
over
time

measuring cups of grain
follow the road that leads to me again
purchase the man in the silver scarf
make sure that he delivers the heart
to the
scuff-mark at your door.

munch

no no no no

in the blackness, i walked past the neon green sign.
it tells me about the steeple and the minaret
and how they stand and stood.
the lady with the black hair and the grease-smeared smock
asks me what it'll be
and i look up at the sky and
decide.

i push the things to one side,
clutter and muck left behind in the rush.
the counter lasts all of two minutes
and i try not to lean on my elbows.

cannot help but peer around,
craving the fire that would put out all the rain pattering down.
the girls beside me have a wet umbrella
which matches the sheen on their used plastic jackets.
i smile at the old man as he pulls up across
and try not to stare at the unshaven boys
in their boisterousness.

could i sit here for hours
imagining - extrapolating - the stories in the hubbub around me
the whispers and tales of woe
the giggles and covert glances
and all the moments lost to a strawberry milkshake
or a banana split
with extra chocolate sauce and no walnuts.

get a little closer and meet her eyes as she pushes at me.
they'll never get me.
an island in a sea.
the stream of soda swishing
around
and sandwiching
the sounds.

for the trek out side is for later
and the music will hit my face
but until then,
munch.

rain

his jaw was cracking as it slipped over mine
my arms reached out to pull the knife from his back
when the tide is frozen on these ancient creatures
i watched the sunrise tell me all the things it had to say.

purposefully opening the jars of bleeding pickles
ending all the summers that we spent along the beach
a child with two thin flowers pushed right up against his hair
mourning all the ones he couldn't reach.

parasites, they feed and anger everything i hold within
the tree that steals the baby from right underneath your nose.
and if the patter of the rain against my brow was stopped
i feel sometimes as though i never knew you.

inexplicable

but its gonna be alright this time...

once the sky began to shatter
all the moments wandering beneath
the open blue umbrella
watching the time.

then all the bears in all the world did look up and did say
why the morning smelt so sweet
why the sunset made me feel
as though i ought to weep.

running through a forest,
feel the eyes of anxious prey.

walking through the suburbs,
hearing all the calls to pray
for yesterday.

stop and ask me whether i had seen the black parade.
wonder at the touching of the self by restless youths
upon the brave
day.

glancing at the man with the uzi wrapped about his neck.
staring at the girl who stares out of the shop.
pursing your parched lips as the screaming tie gets on his soapbox.
helping the old lady cross the street,
an inexplicable desire to sleep.

pages

i have done all i can

the hotel is spinning above me
if i tilt my head at just the right
angle
i can see into the top windows.

there is a man holding a baby and the pieces of his broken heart,
a skipping girl who gently treads along the empty corridor.
a pail of tears for all the threads that were ended long before their time
unraveling from sir gordon's knot to trail away,
one yours, one mine.

the busboy bends to tie his laces,
a maid of honor checks the view.
and as the weatherman opens his laptop
the groom steps off the stool.

a visiting insurance salesman
here for the conference and the free feed
bumps into the foreclosed farmer while he throws the crucifix away.

many times the pretty maid with the pink flower in her hair
has snuck into the cabinet to meet the man who will decide her fate.
and as she closes her eyes and tries not to take in his air
she thinks of the little boy at daycare
with the second-hand blue jumpsuit and the wrenching stare.

a nervous man in an ill-fitting jacket is wondering if the price was right,
the lady in the tight black dress is wearing a wire
but she'll never tell.

the cranky squeak of the fire escape doors is offset by the noisy sign.
it tells me to keep it all shut;
withhold all information,
except the time.

the flowers delivered every morning used to be real, but now they are old.
the swimsuits they sell in their little shop came two years before us,
will never be sold.

birds used to visit,
but now that the journey is stretched beyond time and space,
they too crane their necks simply to get a glimpse of that mythical place.

and when all is finished, the check out time done
and sheets have been turned down once more,
i wriggle my toes in the dirt that's beneath me
and turn the pages.

stars

till moonbeams find you

right in the middle of the ocean
lay a man with a fiddle and a bow
trying so hard to lift a finger
to tell you

left of the shiny tower building
momentary lapse into his shell
the bug with the spray can in his forepaw
listening to the beat

sometimes the pounding of the heart is not enough
the scratches in the doorway meaningless
after thirty years
in the mud
pause to hear the crickets.

a tonne of empty buckets filling up my bags
the ancient breaking labour on the dawn
and with
every rising moon the battle starts
releases all the pent up tears to the stars.

moon

the future never

partly to help the unborn fear,
and mostly because of the sun,
i paused and bent at the knee.
i knew a war had been won.

i stopped atop the grassy knoll
and took in the broken view,
because if moments like yours could be relived
then perhaps his could be too.

the box with its music broke into my thoughts.
a scattered sill of glass
a relapse to things i have never seen
a taste of the sinful repast.

can i not ask about the moon hanging there?
i just want to know 'bout the time.
the deafening roar of your silence
i looked at my hands.

cuckoo

find me something more

i'll tell you
nothing changed my mind more quickly than an open shoebox
why did all the rhyming in the world just fly away.

in time the crazy laughter that follows you towards the jukebox
one day soon will end in prison and dismay

moments like the one you're missing echo all along these
mossy walls of disbelief
silver lining of used handkerchiefs

and as the cuckoo in his tower mocks a world of green and pink
i stand and ask if everything will end this way.