The Geranium Hotel Poems

I stayed the night in Hotel Chamomile and noticed my hair was thinning So I built my own trade out of coffin and possibility I was a sailor with a knife in my shoe who ate salted fish and my air was fresh so fresh I made boys climb masts yes I made boys climb masts And I made them famous I made starlets out of sirens I made fresh water out of salty tears and I knew that everyday the more I tasted blood The more I would wake up with it smeared on my teeth across my lips I became nervous so I let my hair grow thin and I burnt that Hotel Chamomile to the ground.

I dream below the growl of air conditioning I dream of mice infested store rooms of receiving cider kisses from suited men who walk heavily with business I dream below the cool caress of nasal frustrations of concrete pavements chained to footprints that only I can break with the look of true reflection and i walk with great dizzying steps This dream is for him Travel instep so far as you know, things will only gain fortune when the future is brighter than the water on fire. So many buttons coming undone, hanging like faded night- and its all a mistake, all a belief of the mind. Though what I wrongly meant was If I wanted to, I could neglect the time we are together. All the time. And I dream I dream of pauses I dream of forgotten gardens with broken chimneys of Rivers stuck on their banks like drying fish Of model armies fighting as they embrace and a stranger who I warm to though I know its not realities time and i know I am reading my scripted thoughts so I dream ...

Shakey boy what are you doing on the floor? Shakey boy I can’t take your dance no more Shakey Shakey a case of the fits Trying to shake the shake with misses and hits Shakey you like the discotheque Shakey you’re gonna break your neck Shakey Shakey you gotta draw the line Just let us know that you’re gonna be fine...

I was listening to Patti Smith and the flowers were semi-erect sad for paper petals I noticed my hands were those of my mother’s and the control was my father’s I was waiting for Monday to turn black like the under belly of a blind slat I was consciously letting time go it was never mine I had nothing to guide me No light or dove hence i was waiting maybe to cry maybe to die maybe for an angel of androgyny Here at a desk holding photos of strangers and ghosts of great Aunties who fed Lions and who wept amongst the vegetables the fate of us all

The clenched and arched muscles of the non dimensional pornography thinly veiled as art and emotion and the remedy for a broken heart Like a phone call that I know won’t come you aren’t the seasons and if it did I probably wouldn’t want it because I have the seasons and i have waited to long and I hate waiting even for love so I declare that love shall wait for me instead I have the seasons and a bad excuse for loneliness with free prints and secret screens and printed dairies and I don’t think it makes you go blind though I do wear glasses lose my number and when you notice the seasons I hope you are sad God, I hope you are sad.