The Geranium Hotel Poems

I hear the muffled turn of phrase Like you have your mouth full of moths Or your throat stuffed with a rose You ask if there is any desire for the old city There will be no death for me I can not be stilled like the post storm dawn Before I leave for the what was once my family's home The embers glowing like apologetic demons Slowly dying and cooling to the temperature Of the room that surrounds us Your room Your home I catch the splinters on the arm rest I rub my forehead that helmets no headache I am looking for distraction At this thought of finding my way back home Where boys swim naked And the water dries on their shoulders like wine on tiles And grass grows tall beneath the elms The heat is rich and the shade is cool Old ladies cook the same recipes their grandmothers cooked And there is a magic song that is sung When the sun is setting that no one forgets And you ask if I want to return And I wonder if a heart can not belong to a land and a man all

The shine of golden memories Being flooded by the wind Being blown across the summer To meet the orange clay on which you kneel There is nothing in this land That can not be yours You need only say the words You need only whisper the poem Of the ancient saint And the land of kings will be yours Kiss me now as the sun does rise And I will set you on your way Kiss me as a brother, a lover As the foam caresses sand And I will watch you glance Towards the fields of long slender grass Where the mind blows memories toward you To caress you Towards the orange clay I will send you on your way Send you on your way

Fairy boys and books on shelves I fear the authors will never explain Treasure chests and soiled papers No the Author need never explain I hold the lunacy so close to my heart Like Cyparissus held his deer And when at last I spear it with a javelin sharp I will take root and be strong and weep my milky sap There is no amour for the author only paper and hollow drawers Years of clinging fingers clawing at the scratchy straw That is harvested by the young men sun burnt and brown and well fed Their fingers fat and used to tossing tobacco to the gods Apollo... Saint Sebastian... Dionysus O! what a threesome The Author won't explain Why should he He finds the steady rhythm and leaves a mark A nasty stain He looks at the cathedrals He looks at the museums He wears his Jacket, because the rain is going to come And he will seduce you He will stab you with arrows, with javelins, he will guide Paris's bow And he need never explain

Two part harmonies amongst the trees along the lake The man inside the cubicle is my muse for today but I want to leave this place where the air is heavy with need and urge and all are looking down at their shoes and all birds are flying up beyond their nests and young The bottom of the glass holds no secret and the secret is the bottom of the glass and when I get fucked I moan and grunt like every other office boy in this autumnal summer And you who tie the bells to my ankles and plant the snowbells in the ice you wont get away with the murder beneath the thunderclap beneath the christmas tree beneath the feet of the weary soldiers beneath the books and pens I hold out my hand and you take it and you tell me 'There is a crease down the middle of each open book and the paper is nice and white and pale and a pencil is thrown between the pages and history is created/imagined/made' and you were talking about fucking the office boy and having him as your muse each grunt each moan