I heard it in the ears, for years and years
But it always ended at the drum.
Just a word that vibrated through the air and happened upon me.
But only when you were gone for good
Did it travel to my blood.
Dead. Death. Die.
Oh how I used to cry.
At movies but no tears have flown for you.
Inside me is as still as your corpse
No movement except those words.
To Drum. To Blood. To Numb.
I see werewolves in my sleep
Creatures that change with the moon
Just like me.
A howling force to be reckoned with.
Do you hear the pulsing tide?
There is a splashing sensation that will carry blood on its back.
Come now to the door and howl with me.
Not a whimper nor a simper
But a full blown, lung-fuelled roar.
Because there is more. Always more.
Can you hug the blood of me ?
There is a need so deep that only the excavation of bone will do.
Dig my dear.
Love the entrails of me because they have been abandoned of late.
I fear you all are more in thrall with the light cover that shields the rest.
So I ask you to bury down past the soft yielding outer layer.
The one that pleases the eye and fingertips.
Kiss and love beyond the lips and curvy hips.
Sink into the dirt of me.
Land in quicksand but stay still
Then I know you will
Stay. Forever. Stay.
Once upon a time there was a sphere
floating and spinning in the blackest of nights.
On this sphere lived a people whose need to survive depended on a translucent potion which fell from their skies and only their skies .
They also required a rare combination of minerals and vitamins which they could consume from strange creatures which also inhabited this round rock. Some of these creatures even became loyal to them and lived alongside them like family.
These people had an amazing superpower which allowed them to thrive above all creatures and create special crafts that could fly high high and others which could go deep under the translucent basins which dotted their world.
They made special portals which could link their minds over huge spaces and meant that no matter where they went they could speak to whoever they wished.
They could make amazing sounds come out of apparatuses which they fashioned from elements around them. And often they would move involuntarily to these sounds.
Every piece of these people was intricately made and seemed to function as if by …..
“Magic ? Was it magic mother ?”
Of course it was magic my love but the strangest thing about it all is that most of them didn’t believe.
“Why do you write?” He said
The words echoing in my head
Why wouldn’t I ? Why wouldn’t I ?
To let you in
Or keep you out ?
Do I write to shout ?
Look at me. LOOK at me.
Is that why I set pen to pages
To last through the ages?
For this ?
A few words casting only a few sparks.
No Heaney or Shelley
No Wordsworth or Keats.
No wins or defeats
Just me. Just me.
Just a word without the S to make it sharp.
Doctor Imposter in a shower of pain
Always the rain.
But what would I do without it ?
Where would my soul go if not to fill a gap among the many lines.
So I write to fill up a space.
Both inside and outside
I always have and I hope I always will.
There’s a long luscious list of reasons we should
But a jagged emporium of poisonous consequences
Jars upon jars upon shelves upon walls
Filled with outcomes. Black outcomes.
They swirl around like mini-galaxies
Holding us both hostage to our decisions.
It’s not just one you see?
All the things that led us here
A million ways we can go wrong
Let’s sit here for a while. On the safe floor.
In the room without a door.
Where the only way out
Tell me woeful wind where are you coming from?
Whose hair have you already mussed?
Are you bringing me the cheap perfume of a hastily sprayed teenager or perhaps the poised, pulse-douse of a well-aged dame ?
But you are not the same.
There is something different about you today.
I fear you carry tears.
I feel the light spray of sadness whet my own.
You are not an ill wind but rather a ropey one.
Tying us together with all our untrapped chaos
Must you bring me this news ?
I hear the echoe of a sob so very raw
Not even the crows’ caw
Can drown it.
The shushing of you through the leaves
Is the calm before the storm
Warn. Warn. Warn.
The knock at my door this morning.