I put nine in the other, not eight, so here are the other six. Again, any feedback is nice, good or bad. Thanks.
Skin Deep Similarities
Your face tells me nothing but beauty. Your lips, quiet but for quivering.
A smile breaks your face in celebration of an over-rated joke. Knowingly.
I smile only to belong, and we tell a story, silent in the cold.
I could only close my eyes to think. But can’t bring myself to do it,
for fear you would disappear like the feeling in my hands.
The starkness of our situation breathes a lonely thought.
That you are not here. I argue with myself to speak, but wonder
if it would confirm my suspicions and you would indeed be gone.
The light from oncoming cars scan your face and fill your eyes.
You realise I am staring. I look away to the side mirror to see
the tow truck stop. The man gets out. I am alone. Again.
Stalking. Pray.
I tried to tell you something, all but for closed doors,
ones with locks and chains, not some metaphor:
is the means by the end all pointless but for the in-between…
You don’t answer me through the double glazing still.
Just light hummings, like backward wings, and whispered somethings.
Rooms on rooms and two-way mirrors,
they can’t cry for all’s lost. Good, everything is found in lost points.
Is it only lines, and light, without audible judgement beyond
rain and twisted enigmas, any more complicated?
Among them, people splash the post-rain walkways
on their way to work in flammible wicker chains,
of which you are a link. I am but a match.
I will make, of you, ruined waxwork with spent spontinaity.
Perfection in one sense cylindrical, but indescribable until
I make a change that’s not so irreversable to draw your parafin tears.
‘‘Don’t cry. You’re not dead, just different’’.
‘‘Liar’’.
‘‘You only change when you think you are still the same’’.
–silence–
Waiting Room Fuselage
Undulating, salted wounds push thought
through the roots of hair into hot air,
a hat for thinking,
too much to ask?
‘‘Next.’’
Scuffling.
Such spans of concrete,
shut windows, and yet,
the scent of pine escapes.
It does battle with alcohol.
‘‘Not the good kind.’’
‘‘Pity.’’
A wish in dish perfect to
count accursed…
‘‘Next.’’
Swift strides of confidence.
Eye contact.
‘‘Seven or so, I wager.’’
‘‘Say something.’’
‘‘Shh.’’
A comfortable chair is patience.
Next.
‘‘Next.’’
‘‘Next and peanuts I suppose.’’
‘‘I wish they would.’’
‘‘Ssshhhh.’’
‘‘Next.’’
‘‘Hmm.’’
‘‘Hmm.’’
No peanuts.
Walking Home
That misenthropic midnight waves more stars before me.
Clouds are courting the moon in a dance dead of pace.
Graceful only for the slowness of their motion.
Dreams kick up from the puddles in my path.
Stationary stars scatter from the centre,
now held by the moon and a passing partner.
She must be breaking hearts. Rain falls on bare trees
and softly sweeping grass in the wind.
The sound of night echo in my mind like illusions
in a pool of water. They sing praise of my meeting
to the stars. My feet hug the ground in an ever disengaging
embrace, mimicking the rain.
The hiss of rain on the world is intoxicating, draining all emotion,
leaving only contentment.
I think of the opposite side of windows where I can be
content in comfort. To think is to spoil happiness, so goodbye.
Wellspring
There are butterflies in my lights.
All dead.
A fleck of metal in my glass.
Unmoving.
There is a hole in my shared lawn;
blades will never meet her perfect lips.
Never.
An orange-lit window, witch-like
conjours dreams forever.
Maybe.
Freedom.
So close, but lacking tastebuds.
Bruised grey matter, choose
the card of the Mad Hatter.
Please?
Yes!
With Waking
Make my room a moth in dust,
for clarity when danger comes.
And shake the thoughts of the safer clime
to temper sober stretching limbs.
Beat me with the light of day,
I’ll submit to fear, and grey.
Do not ease my eyes on rest
to ache the room with speech of night.
Respite breathe like untorn wings
to flee from life in wider scape.
Do not slide from your seat,
for dust will move when all is neat.
I’ll transfer regards through bloodied knee
when escape kills bland clarity.
