Poems

TWO HOURS

You are leaving
in a vivid metal dress.
The polished, purchased pulse
rumbling sound trap
kerosene sky.
Our conversation squeals like a beaten trolley-suitcase.

All clerks are sick
or on training days
vacant positions.
Little truths remain unsorted
while "you're going" just stands there
above a stagnant pond of data.

There is a point
significant as
but all I feel
is the Customs stamp,
fold of paper over an optimistic passport photo.

The air-clump as hatches lock.

 

 

ENDS OF NOTHING

Even waves surrender.   It's coming.
Our houses hug water - rivers,
seas and swimming pools.   The eyeburn
of white paint.

 

We are the well fed, with nice floppy hats
and flaccid thinkers' hands.
Each idea is an embryo of husk.
White sand
litters every beach, blonde hair
and the amputee lurch of upsized cars.
Real estate windows, formerly
entertainment of choice, they grin like loons and get avoided.
We domesticated our words
before intelligence.
Wisdom is a difficult plant...
only for the ardent grower.

 

There's a mortgage out on clouds
and even weeds fail beneath
"another perfect day".
A spinal cord of wooden steps down to the sea,
sea ate forest, bred coal.
Our levee banks will stop all that,
we've put our money on permanence
and the brokers are crooks.

Because even the waves stop. White sand is a temporary thing
whittled from mountains
by teeming sky.

Pain management for the new princes,
pale chubby arms learn to climb.
Pines know this is coming.   Pets drop
dopey facades, fret
and forget their humans.
Birds won't talk, abandon
the five songs of territory.
White balls patrol the putting green beside a murderous blue.

Water retreats as argent dunes dissemble, fill all distance.

Wind changes.
Man is stuff of fire and soil,
any valley confirms water will win.
The empress of chemicals -
that moisture our bodies hold is ransomed
then released. Fire is transitory
and dirt is our slave.

 

Water will rise again, the "victories" so certain
it has no inkling of contention.
Even the noise of our retreat
is just a high tone beside spume.

 

Life rides water
the parasites of breath
replicate in any silence.
The next already grows
in a compost of hunger.

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