The Geranium Hotel Poems

In this true story lies a hidden messiah For the redemption of all inhabitants of a pretend city One that lies on a land between my feet Full of enemies of the empty lilac room I know that it is your de-curtained and circular stage That is swept clean with the one stalk of the pale lily You who wear the embroided emblems Of monarchies and states long extinct Coats and arms and crests of houses long fallen I am one to wrap my self in thoughts of you To shovel away the layers of dust for information To find the sordid photographs and feel the distant heartbeat Nothing changes when you pine for ships of meat Time becomes naught but a heading for a chapter And you find yourself standing naked Next to men from hundreds of years before Naked men standing pretty Brilliant men slowly disappearing In an empty lilac room With intelligence that is second only To their urges and thoughts Of the tapestries of masculine soup That is sprayed with the brightest of colours Like a stained glass wind...

The road that I’m on it could make me cry The mountains are so far, so far Yet the valleys are so near, so near And the wind that stirs is the one that blows My thoughts far beyond my reach I knew, once, the name of every star And had a breath saved for each meteor But now I forget more and more And am lucky to remember, to remember That your window is the lowest, the smallest In the wall that is the skeleton That holds up the ivy that holds up the vine Of the grape that ripens in the summer The sterling silver summer And I have to pray to the memory To help me find that lowest of windows And with no shame I will open, I will open it I will cut away the knee-high blossoms I will pull apart the ivy I will open the window and I know, I know Here is where I will collide With the angels with the muses With the saddest of the comedies I will lovingly name my road ‘Disaster’ And in the light of day I will leave that window   I will point at the sky, at the sky And I will rename those...

You know those big-eyed lads? Big hands, big jaws, big shoulders, big eyes. Most with hard leather shoes Scuffed from kicking gutters and piles of concrete Ignoble, angry, pleasant and confused Cigarette between big tender lips Those that have been passed down From the peasants of the middle ages Just enough stubble on their dimpled chins And just enough wiry hair on their broad chests These rough trade lads In love with their mothers In fear of their fathers Sleepy sweaty cocks Nestled in innocent briefs And big arses that are held steady By thighs that were formed In high school football teams And fondled by teachers And cheerleaders And friends of their sisters And whores And men in public toilets And all the while Nothing would pass through these lad’s minds But the pleasant feelings They feel when with clean briefs and shorts Resting around ankles atop scuffed boots And the hand Goes from beefy thigh To awaken the lad’s sleepy, tender cock