The Geranium Hotel Poems

New York, I am going, to love you I am leaving these pavements for yours To wear holes in my shoes and smell the sweat That runs from your curbs your architecture I am going to be one of the numberless lovers To look around and up at your sharp chin Within your starless night where the light fades fairytales I am going to chalk my own body’s outline on your parks central point Feel the cannibal shudder of your resources Tear at the leaves and cigar ends of your business district Until the summer window has fogged Until I thicken body’s warmth with coffee and leather jacket I am going to punch your hardened face To see if you still bleed To see if I can get past the dealerships and developments I am going to feel your groin To see if you still grow hard To see if you can still thrust forward with the enthusiasm of nature New York, I am leaving, to love you To eat whatever it is you put before me To wince at the cane that you use to raise your children The children who change the wor

All destruction is under my belt and is equal to a hit to the head the reflection of breath and a light house in decay My thoughts are of the useless Words flow freely when spoken the prophets of nothing will cause tears in showers though these prophets will pass like a lighthouse in decay Falling apart and falling out never to understand Ottoman Orchards never to grasp Turkish Mothers and a brief spell in a bed doesn’t count for love Over a bridge with a troll beneath the point is the bridge is lined with flowers the bank is lined with mud The road goes on forever The River leads to a shore and a lighthouse in decay

Here in my night of passing I bequeathed stupidity the garden trees In protest of their silence ‘They never spoke their language to me’ I announced, my voice suspended by mortality The wind moaned and stupidity grinned I looked around the room and announced Lust was to be the heir of my paint box ‘Its colours were ill conceived, I never told anyone that’ The wind moaned and Lust looked suspicious Happiness gained my shoes in protest of them ‘...Never taking me to the grave of Alexander’ The wind moaned and Happiness merely sipped from her wine glass And beautiful Cynicism gained my reputation ‘For what it is worth something... surely’ The wind moaned and there was much blood shed My ghost I bequeathed to the wind Who then threw it to the trees In a mix of callous ingratitude and psychological punishment And oh how those trees moaned and groaned in dismay And I heard and understood every one of their words

Timothy, I don't blame you For trying to change the world From that forrest in your mind And you know you're the most splendid Because that's what the voices said But, Timothy, I worry about you Your world it is the abstract Too beautiful, too deep It inspires itself to grow, to evolve The golden throne sits alone  And you sit among the geraniums Looking out into the world Timothy, you hate the shallow  Timothy, you are frustrated by the image of the new century Timothy, darling, you have to get up Walk into the woods and carve a new world You have to round up an army Who will beat boulder with lilly And carve statues of gods Timothy, you have to become the whole world You have to shudder against the universe You have to pull down the concrete pillars To build the golden palaces of poetry And when the towns burn and the ugly townsfolk flee Come out from the woods and make your claim For the world will be yours to recreate Timothy the time is upon you and your army Start fo

Which colour is mine? The colour of the street that you walk upon? Yes I’ve seen your shoes together at the foot of a bed and singularly treading the grey cement of a gutter at night expecting something that anger has delayed What colour? The colour of your collar as it covers your neck the one that has lain on soft pillow on chest with wiry hair now hidden from view by the collar like the bricks of a building hidden by plaster to hide the support and honesty What colour? What shade? Once found would I have sense of ownership? would i claim it and paint my banner with its symbolism? would i say the word until the word was the colour? or would i give it away to a lover one night drunk on lust and wine covered in summers sweat and the stench of a bastard and be left pale with dark crescents beneath my eyes.

Lilac airwaves Selfless, United, bejeweled with purity tempting feathered sons to deny their birthdays for all of December good Morning Liquid Cartoons scented with God’s breath evaporating in anticipation to lock chauffeured poets away for all of December Maudlin twins Symmetrical, dancing, mirrored in life holding the garden together as the flowers die down for all of december Sacred fire of Bacchus Hapless, dying, left of centre Burning to seduce and burning to guide the unwritten thoughts of poetry for all of december...

I was conceived in the dirt on the ground I was conceived with no thought of rent boys I was conceived with no stars or doves I was conceived so far, so far away My nightmare is My nightmare is and my nightmare is conceiving Words and births birds and baths money and freedom boats and boasts I came to on the floor. swollen tongue resting in my head. with a bottle of nameless wine and a letter for the dead. I picked my teeth and spat the blood. sensitive disharmony. terrific duels in the alleys. leather jackets and pants-less hysteria. Piss control frothing in the garage and a man named Jean... A man named Jean Staring into space with a fork in the air nothing on the fork but the expectation of peer group black cape and black eyes criminal fuck then a silent marriage of boys of boys of boys who won’t conceive can’t conceive but will sell their pure flames and remember hardened numbers tattooed like the first crime until hairless famous and dying in hotel rooms

Ah the one night I had you is still in my bed lost in the creases of my sheets I guiltily thought of your background your statistics and if you would still be pretty when you are an old man Will you make it there? Who would help you there? I only had you for one night of your life No thought of love ever to cross the gaze just a period of trying to get off and get through to the next moment the next morning And now I wonder who will have you? As you are aging? who will walk you to your death bed I would never want that chore I would prefer to walk you to my bed for one night and remember you like that A Dorian Gray that cums quickly and keeps me smiling with his noisy snoring The Future is strange though I speak from experience And maybe it will throw us back together for longer than a night and I will have to walk you to your death bed and perhaps I wont mind until then

Like a cut on the verge of healing Still throbbing and still stinging Still bleeding at the slightest of knocks The precursor for the scar, on the index This is age, always, you wait for it You can feel it throbbing against your head Like a shovel throwing dust It stings like vinegar on the back of a raw throat Stings like abuse from a family member It is the precursor for your mark, you have to make it. Your friends I thought were fools Poor sports and grossly unattractive But then I hadn’t met them all You seemed lovely though I wanted you to be my  boyfriend But you said no So I said to my self I would stop lying And then you said yes And I too said no I didn’t think you thought much of me You were pretty and funny and older So I gave you a nickname Which I think you liked You then said one of my favorite Beatles songs Was like a Rod Stewart cover You only really gave me the time of day When we grew a little older and then I don’t remember meeting you again but I must of.

Your Bob Dylan hair cut It cuts like a blade Yours was ‘Yours Truly’ Tho I felt it was a fiction One man leant over the hill While another pulled at the ears This is what Gay Love really is A threesome in a hotel in a city Where the light burns brightest before the dawn Your Spanish Lorca smile It paid for the rent Yours was a magnified existence Tho it never made the paper One dead actor hung from the wall Guilt was a bum that never asked for change At the very least a death by déjà vu This is what optimism really is A threesome in a hotel in a city Where the actresses always mean it when they say ‘See you later’ See you later The pockets of the overcoat are all sewn up To stop the snow from filling them To stop the snow from weighing you down Cause you don’t need the purity of winter Encroaching on your burden It’s your Bob Dylan hair cut It is what cuts me like a blade But I still kiss your little mouth And get slapped by the code of your first language Yours was ‘Yours Sincerel

Ah the beautiful! The sweet! The things I hold within my palm The play we are in The show we perform The silence between the shout Surrendering youth to experience Surrendering bliss to exhaustion Ah the Beautiful! The Sweet! The summer we create The autumnal song we orchestrate The gasp at every stab Acknowledging the blushing cheeks Acknowledging the disappearing days Ah the Beautiful! The Sweet! Every notion of every glance Every triumph of every man Every failing of every king Its what I hold within my palm I see the colours in my dreams, I dream of writing poetry, It is the beautiful, It is the Sweet, It is the loud exhale of my trialing self, trying to combat a television world, with words, with the beautiful, with the sweet. I hear a great symphony A chaotic challenge of musical beauty I can see into the grey darkness A heavy weight that bursts with idea I think of the high pitch of life I think of the hard thud of falling men I think of pine forests Of pine needles and shar