bird word
2010
An unpublished book of poems
To My Love
And I catch my breath for yet one more time within this second
as wanderings of you swim through me,
tethering the tips of budding prime which now begin their opening
to the wheat warm sun whose concentrics have conjoined
into one amaranthine embrace that wraps around us.
Gravity Calls My Love
The seat.
Moving,
Falling.
Gravity calls through a horn cast from the inner ear.
Like desire its purring velocity
echoes an aggregate of the real,
whisks its tail across its brow
and becomes its empty total.
I take a cast from the outer side,
press my lips to the horn’s mouth.
It’s too big,
too big by a unit of time
called love.
Falling body aggregates
an echo of the real.
Curled at the edges,
in volvo,
it undulates of difference between then
and then.
I take a cast from the inner side.
The inspector of conduits sneezes out
the before and aft.
A salt less drop remains
called love.
The two casts
seek to match,
bounce together in a unit of time
called hope.
Falling body and gravity,
echo and aggregate.
Untamed,
the seat
in motion
through a unit of time
the casts join
and the horn stops.
Dizzy.
Feet.
The Unnamed Happiness of Tuesday
ready to home.
I hear the big band start up and I see
the ends of coloured streamers jibe in cooler winds
as the tram is boarded.
Bon voyage!
Panacea
And when the sweat broke for the last time
And the nausea resided
I felt boundless love
Heave from behind my spine and inside
For you.
My Bellower
Born from a Szczecin seamstress
and a one night gypsy.
68 and built solid, like potato.
She is the staunchest of my inner voices,
has more stamina than my Deep Water Fisherman,
my Pigeon Fancier
and even my Rock Pig.
She moves ahead of my secret reverie and wonderings, with unexpected stealth.
Face creased like silk dried in a tight ball of wet fabric,
then lightly teased open.
Walnut shell eyes positioned near her ears
and a broad-bridged nose with modest protrusion.
She wears her double dentures on the window-sill.
Her mouth tilts slightly to her left in what appears to be
quiet, unfaltering nonchalance.
One head height less than I, she stands upright and heavy breasted.
Her right fist is firmly stationed at what was once her waist.
Movement in a blue and white small spotted frock is
a steady burrowing action.
Leveraging on my thoughts.
She has something to say.
Roaming and yawping are her two greatest fates.
And I am her fairground.
She shuffles about my reflections and waits.
Shuffles some more, accumulating volume in her hand woven basket.
And with her basket full,
the bellow erupts, catches on the re-stitched seams of her vocal curtains,
unhindered by teeth
and refracts in all directions.
Then, as if to harvest the scattered sound,
she mumbles,
before shooting off more commentary.
I am unsure if it’s the bellow, the scatter or the mumble I am supposed to listen to.
I imagine her a young woman, sewn into her future and yearning from gypsy blood.
Her white face shows lines early and is
written with the stories of others,
lightly teased open.
Then I realise I am looking at the page and for that moment she holds her breath and I see her smile.
Bird
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bird
Word
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I Felt The Turning
I felt the turning.
The turning of cylinders whose
Circle ends crash into itself.
And the cylinders begin to fold over,
Into themselves
Onto itself.
Infinite dimensions of blurry planes.
Of muddy waves and irregular crease marks,
Directing me towards more sinking troughs and boundless edges.
And I am at sea in the night,
In the darkness,
In the salt.
Constricting my heart and the light.
There are no stars,
I can not see
But a dim crescent moon,
Which I ride the waves towards
With the sea in my eyes.
Strangers in the Fright
It is written that she is legless.
All around her it is half past two.Nearby, a couple skirt around a naked flame,
Lust spurting from a pin-hole camera.
She stands in front of an escalator as he takes her photo.Below, lines of ants wearing skinny jeans and pouted sulfur lips
Are closing in on the volcano’s mouth.
They pause to skim searing slices of basalt across pools of smoke.
Wanderers go overboard against the Boom Boom.
The tough case of silken material,
small sticks woven into the fabric.
She once called home now
Jibes forcibly with sudden shifts of the spewing scenes.
Rigged arms for the first time
She sinks deep into the swell of noise
In search of light
While the lesser and the common house Fly
Inside the murkiness
Awaiting the decay of the night’s
Buzz.
Home Bird Came
Bird
Bard
Bare
Rare
Dare
Dame
Came
Come
Home
High School Friend
Hey there you.
With the pen on a rope and your clean
Dunlop Volleys.
At school you studied geometry and trigonometry
And brought goon to the sports carnival.
Drove your Dad’s yellow Mercedes through the Bottle-o
One arm on the wheel.
The boys wanted you and so did the girls.
Whatever they got they were happy
You didn’t even notice.
Dad’s in New York for a month.
Despite the cask wine you were an athlete.
When you entered a room
Ears popped like cherries at the drive-in.
I wonder where you are now and what you are doing.
I thought I saw you once,
at the supermarket with four screaming kids and
a trolley full of quick foods.
I was pleased when I realised it wasn’t you.