A Day Broken Off Time

Morning of waiting dew
Last night's stifling stillness forgotten
Skies lighten at the tips of my toes
Shut off to the broken chimes of time
Nuzzling a dying rose
Hoping to revive her
Or me

Just Another Day

No matter how wonderful we want our stories to be, there must be normal days in the interstices of those too. There are unwritten days in stories, unwritten moments in days, and today is one of those days. Today is not the day we met. Not the day I stood breathlessly at the door waiting for him to come out. Today is not the day we lingered under the stars just a little longer than we usually do. Certainly wasn't today that he went down on one knee as the world slipped into sweet oblivion. Nor has there been a bitter exchange of burning truths that neither of us wish to see. Today is not the day I shall stare musingly at the trickle of blood from a rose-pricked finger. Today is none of those days. Today is that unwritten moment of that unwritten day that stories leave unspelt. Today is just another day. It is the unseen substance of our story without which the beginning and the end would be no more than just days.

Must I Fight

Write write write,

She said

Each word more impatient than the last

And all I saw was sunflowers wilt

And gulmohars broken at the hilt

Write write write,

She said

Her dark eyes imploring the words to implode

But all I saw was great heights melt

The horizon meeting its own end

Write write write,

She said

Each word restless in the fixity of its self

And all I saw was red ivory

Blue nails and limp carcasses

Write write write,

She said

Each word tipping recklessly over the edge

But all I saw was the rocking horse toppled over
Little fragments of wood and dried glue

But write Write WRITE,

She said

And I slashed paper with ink

I watched as the wounds grew damp and dark

And white flesh faded into pools of leisurely love

Her hungry eyes watched lustily

Waiting for miraculous transformations

While I

Gently laid down stained nib and body

Opened its leather case and let it rest

Eyes shut in heavy prayer

Refusing to open to the battlefields before me

Refusing to see the blood I had shed

Refusing to see the people killed

The branches broken

The petals wilted

If it be this that I must cause

Let me not write at all

Complex

Musty waves of stillness

Amongst hot breath and candle light

Stale yellow pages

Leave me with smarting cheeks

Ink-stained fingers shy out of sight

Into balls of melting and hardening humility

Hiding uneasily below molding wood

Scratching at the surface

Too ashamed to get out

The Juggler's Cap

A tiny mercurial ball

Tinkling like fairy-laughter

Struck my little left toe

A giggle

A gasp

And fading claps

Dissolving with the silence

In little stagnant pools

Of shivering ignominy

Heads bobbed curiously up

Ragged roar of remonstrations

Monstrous black balls of tumbleweed

Scattered glasses, egg shells

Humble footprints headed off stage

And the juggler’s cap

Once the yellow yolk of English breakfast

And the rich red evening tea

Spread-eagled there on dust motes

Through the Looking Glass

Half way through torn flesh and bone

I have bitten back the name

That flows so quick from your lips

Smooth as water over pebbles

Effortless as summertime game

Yellow clusters gnash at each other on the windowsill

Mute, terrified faces point to my shoulder

Pincers flick lazily as I turn

We are indifferent now

The expected pause has reached a full halt

Rough cloth against glass

And yet the smudges stay

Try resting it on your nose

At least a part of me will still be yours

To have or simply watch

I trace streams, form pools

Off tables and sodden pillows

It is in darkness that I see your face

It fades with the morning light

Maybe I’m colour blind

But it gnashes again

And I know it’s there

Waiting patiently, maybe impatient

I wouldn’t know

I will let you crawl again

It is easy to shower affections on creatures

Their love is preserved in jars

Broken, smashed and delicately lost

You will outlive their love

As you will mine

And yet I sit with stricken cloth

Rubbing rubbing rubbing

Do you see me?

Do you see me?

Do you see me now?

Punching the Clock

6^th April

3.34 am

Feathers lifted lightly off our bed and drifted out the velvet window.


2.23 pm

A light draught unsettles the trailing sheet. Revealing a pair of unpainted feet. 


2.38 pm

Faint trill of a yellow bird. Maybe red. Maybe blue. I wouldn't know..and dreams breathe heavily again.


2.54 pm

Interpreting dreams..is there another way?

Vasily Kandinsky

b. 1866, Moscow, Russia; d. 1944, Neuilly-sur-Seine, France 

“We are still firmly bound to the outward appearance of nature and must draw forms from it” 

3.27 pm 

Always miss the clock ticking in the middle of the day. But there it is now.

3.35 pm

Resting my chin on my knees. Staring at the floor between my feet. Occasionally wriggling my toes. But of course.



3.44 pm

Do tongues keep growing?

"The human tongue stops growing when you do. The age is slightly different for everyone." As an afterthought, "there are exercises to make it longer."

See? I don't need you to answer my questions.

<pause>

Have I stopped growing?

<sigh>

I do. Who am I kidding?

3.54 pm

Curtains flutter. Houyhnhnms trot in through the open door. And drag me away.


4.28 pm

Houyhnhnms tamed for the time being. I come riding back. Trumpets. Horns. The whole show. 
Oh there you are.

7th April

12.07 am

Hanging off cliffs again. Rescued by a star. Frenzied flutter of paper and floods of ink. A nib through my collar and I'm set ashore. Been a long day. Time to lie awake again. Are we afraid of the dark?

Swans or Plastic Cans?

There were white swans in green grass

And blades of lust

Wings flapped

And I held my breath

They were but plastic cans in dust

Our yellow blooded creatures

Have grown since the winter

What lightly tickled then stings now

And draws more than just yellow blood

I recoil now from what I dearly loved

I shut gates

And doors and closets

And windows

For I may walk in

And find you there

What season is it?

You ask, hoping for spring.

And it is spring, and you are right

But I am the creature

That’ll die by night

See them now

Those plastic cans

For what they are

Not as you do

For what they could’ve been

But why not?

Why not be swans

In blades of lust

Who are they to tell us where we belong?

Let’s hold our breath above water

Who says we can’t live in vacuum?

Who says we need to breathe?

Who says we are swans or plastic cans?

Who says we shouldn’t be?

Unlearning Us

You are no more now than the spaces between the letters of your name

Cramped together in suffocating proximity

Or drifting apart in whirlwinds of empty time and space

It is all the same

I thought bricks would make stepping stones to climb

But they only hold us down

Sinking us into the cool depths of yesteryears and dreams

As we try so hard to rhyme

Tongues twist and roll in the back of our mouth

Holding back words and puns and turbulence

And we look into hooded eyes

Trying to shout

We should have licked

Tender lips and left

Raw skin is better kissed

And left unspelt