The Geranium Hotel Poems

THE WRITER IN GREY by T for Travelling Timothy He doesn't like it when I yawn He doesn't like it when my eyes are open He likes it when I lie there While he paints or sketches me with my grey eyes closed my clothes on the floor He likes the idea of me Though he doesn't like me He doesn't like my words but he likes what I write He reads the words with a smile But looks at me with sorrow I lie on his couchand he draws me in grey naked and alive with my mind on other things He doesn't like it when I laugh He doesn't like it when I move He likes it when I think about poetry and Rimbaud when I lie there silent, alone and naked his thumb is wide and vast He has truth on his side and art in his actions some think he is controlling with me being the controlled But it's never for very long and he gives me the space for thinking and writing the words that he likes so much and I still sit watching him watching me and he finishes another portrait of his pet, the writer,

The circle in the wall The window to the mood Eyes and Trojan horses taking turns Someone stood and had the time to chip and chisel Bringing pleasure to the servants Anon by Anon, done by Anon With coughs and claps And fingers touch by touching Married with frustration Excitement with stainless steel That famous excitement The common urine The wall that stands between... People are running Both late and scared Someone excluded stood, exhaled and blinked The dust and grime stands there to mark The little death of snow white flurries The liquid apple cores In the mouth of naughtiness Dribbling down walls Washed down drains Caught behind the wedding rings But the ferns still grow Like the school yard bullies The obesely suited With flushed face and soiled shoes The wet crescent moon upon the black polish Who was the framed? Who was the first? Within that circle in the wall?

'WHEN THE GATE SITS ALONE' When the gate sits alone holding itself between the wooden posts men on service leave wash themselves in reedy ponds or under great tanks as trains pull in with staring eyes glaring or gleefully spying on naked flesh with hairy chests and placid cores. to dress in the morning one must find the drawer pulling the cotton over feet, ankles, knees up fleshy thighs with hair growing since 1933 cupping the familiar curves with support with shadowed and softened indents as one looks out the window to the garden and the gate the gate that sits alone II the naked sideboard it sits alone like a vein throbbing at the temple showing nothing but the acceptance of time's constraint how has the matter ejaculated like liquid apple cores into the universal food-for-thought syndrome? there is nothing gastronomical about thought (excepting those idyllic tales and oils upon canvas behind the white, white sheet). I watch you as you walk knowing that you think of bitte

ROOM 111 His skin was so soft So smooth Though I never surrendered my awareness A drawn introduction Became a stammering pause A stuttering and shuddering frustration Only quelled with the surprise of his soft skin This grasp was fused tight In room one, one, one The curtains acted as a veil For they were so thin and transparent In front of them we were naked Embracing on the bed Oblivious to the world behind them Who in its turn Was oblivious to us The world in its early October sun Revolving around its spring lake Its capital politics Its long weekend dinner parties Its medical abnormalities We were holy On that bed In room one, one, one And afterwards you left With plans for India and employment And afterwards I left With plans for manuscripts and Africa And I often wonder What will become of us and our laughter And the ghosts of our embraces That haunt Room one, one, one

The 67th ode to Lorca I can see the arrangements of desire leaking through the days with me, maybe, wanting to be as pretty as New York or at least as alluring Maybe then Lorca's ghost could see some icy purity in the colour of my morning eyes Maybe he would look in them and see some child's fantasy his/mine/the world's/New York's Lorca is dead I read his words translated and wonder if I am missing some great Spanish secret If I read it in Spanish would I then wonder if I was missing some great personal secret of Lorca's? Do all men who collect the colours of frail life lend themselves to day with such burning hearts that even the sun wilts like a picked flower before them? Lorca you were one of these men Lorca whose blood was redder than mine Lorca whose neighbours never whispered about notebooks and inky fingers Lorca who cried into his white linen Lorca who graffitied sonnets onto the untamed wind Who ate oranges in summer and drank wine all year round Lorca, wou

THE 7th. A poem written after contemplating 'The swimming hole' by Thomas Eakins by Sattis Factionne Here it is the pinnacle viewed by the 7th this portrait of unintentional sensuality this innocent canvas my eyes are drawn to 1884 my eyes are drawn to the stance of pride Eakins the neglected real-life dreamer the realist from Philadelphia the 6th, as I understand it but which is he? The diver? The recliner? The bather? Here is the 7th looking towards them more real than any realist could ever accomplish wanting to join them exchanging splashes and smiles and sunbeams blinking at their pagan splendour It could go on foreverthis refused commission These gentlemen are older now than I shall ever be these gentlemen are older now than even their creator (eternally 71) Forever caught naked forever caught holier and prouder than even Zeus and Ganymede and I, the 7th, the viewer. How will I be portrayed? me in my jeans, my jacket, my white and tight underwear Cold within the walls of

I wrote my name in a book. There were 1000 pages. I put it back on the shelf and forgot about it. One hundred years later my house burnt down. The only thing I saved was this book. I remembered it at the very last moment. Funny what you remember when your house is burning down. I stood outside. The flames rose so high. My shirt was still smoking and my shoes were all molten. In my hand was the 1000 page book. I opened it and saw my name. I smiled and walked through my red hot iron garden gate, onto the road and on my way. I left my house burning. I was in the night. Cool and dark and on my way. I had never felt so good. Not once in my 124 year history. The title if the 1000 page book was ‘What to do when you rescue this book while your house is burning down (hit the road and get on your way)’. Its author was myself. Funny thing foresight.