Rogue Again

The concertina that

made the wind seem

cruel, was washed ashore.

Shine and break

with the windowed glass

to that deep and rolling pure.

Cocaine clusters clatter

and roll on clumps of clay;

these days we don’t look down.

This land bleeds wet bubbles

a stiff breeze gargles as it sweeps by;

bulging, jealous eyes weep gold.

Orgastic lungs feed the dunes

but the ground is ever fading

to another that calls its name.

Finally, the day is no longer

like the shadows that flickered

and died; emaciated and vulgar.

The Marked

You are touched and marked so
and now the nighttime glows
to those in darkness show
wherever it is you roam.

Your shoulder was just brushed
as through the town you rushed
and shook your hands at frowns
the flashing, flailing gowns.

You are one of us, the marked
one who is locked to show the dark,
a lonesome life apart
a better place to start.

Rest well and follow my dust
make way when the sun is rust
the marked line the walls
beyond which the big blue pools.

Ignore the staring eyes,
the thumping heart, it tries,
they mean well and elate
the marked, the lean, the fate.

The Flint In The Cold

These rituals are finite and yet we play each
beat to a scathing rhythm. When we sit with
hands clasped before the fire, as though a wall
to shun the shimmered cold, we ache for some
tension; the rolling crunch of a fuelled wick, or
the grating teeth that deny all chatter. Find a
warmth in these palms that clench, held aloft
over white flecked with red. The picnic blanket
of our hearts is where we dine in these last
hours. Do you quake like my azul heart? Or is
this the final time it matters? Send the dark
away once more and let the stars blink crust
and crystal into that void above.