The Geranium Hotel Poems

Sing the industructable piano song towards my big fat head! I need it between my legs before I go to bed! Wave away my flies Wave away my flies Let your pale white digits do the walking in the cavity Let your mind run wild with its unlocked depravity I am lying here smelling cigarette smoke and old cologne Lying here thinking of where I’d like to poke my bone What a theatrical show! Beneath the snow! One of natural woe! From head to toe! Look at you boy, you are the son of death All scars and fur, the part of the beast Look at you boy, you’ve lust on your breath And baby, I wanna be your feast The lightening it hits the town, lighting the spire and angering the snarling angels Oh, a stranger, I don’t believe we’ve met! My name it is purity, but my middle name’s regret The pavers move up and down we better stomp quietly Better take off the bells from our sleeves Better not make a scene and put a stop to this revolution! Those angels will see us Those heavily armed angels, blushin’ snar

I was a soldier  I never fought  I watched someone die though Who? My younger self  it was so sad…  so... unexpected…

A man walks through the concrete night he has a laser beat throbbing against the chill that rushes from his hands Through the trees that line the pavements he walks listening for the gospel heroes of the past He has drawn himself up to the full height of just over six foot These days are his and he is the night's Somewhere a light is switched on for him Somewhere a light is extinguished Here it is autumn and the leaves are smouldering in their own decay As the stars reach the brightest stage A bending note of music grabs and pulls at the host The creased dome and fleshy silence of thought is moved Oh the ugliness of sarcastic love And the aged body stepping from the diamond bath This is the truth that cracks the pavement Cracks the pavement burn off your wings step into my arms THIS IS THE GREATEST OF PUZZLES Like the truth of the gods can love's narcissism pull you from the flames? The night it is a cage One that withholds the wildest of beasts Here

Folks of the circus! Do not be afraid, after scanning the prose, to leave a kiss in the form of praise! or tell me how it is that I fail you... A comment from you, yes you oh charming one, would be delight in its purest of forms. TIMOTHY

Mad in the desirous blur of lights flickering all over the men, all over the bodies that lie naked on the relaxed earth. Here are the broken, here are rich, the poets with bad intent. Look at those boys with the dreams between their legs! Like the religion that once stood high in their hearts but has now crumbled like the walls of Eden. All the angels fly in their frenzied echo, teeth bared and swords drawn waiting for the pause, the entry, Oh, there shall be no beat for them though, no drummer to announce their entry for this is the city of trees where the pavements are golden and the language is pure, there is no mongrel culture here. What is the spark that ignites the search for beauty in the embrace of man? Who gently exhales warm breath on the spark to ignite great torrents of flame bearing down on the thoughts of the pure minded? Turning them from the bland soups on the bare tables of their schools and introducing them to the banquet upon history’s flamboyant table. Oh flicke

We are the new shades of blue We are the forgotten sons of Pan We are the axe men in the forrest vast We are the time keepers in a world with out momentum We are the boys amongst men We are the sweet words unheard We are the dictionaries clawed by poets We are the fish's fin rippling through water salty We are the hitch-hiker's blistered feet We are the archer's bow and arrow in the sky We are the muscles relaxed and tense We are the happy shoreline flat before the cliff We are the highest of musical notes We are the sunflower dying in the frost We are the roman coin found by the school child We are the crying grandmother in love We are the honour and sacrifice of the religious We are the daylight streaming through the bathroom window We are the spring coming from the winter We are the final breath being passed as a kiss We are the touch of God, the touch of Venus We are the steps to heaven We are the embrace of youth We are the end of motherhood We

Tanzania, I am longing to see your Baobab trees again The trees that grow fatter on the virtue of their patience Tanzania, I am longing to see your sands again The sands that grow redder within the shadow of your country’s history Tanzania, I am longing to drive your roads again The roads that can take you through the mobile phone villages from the end of Malawi to the beginning of Kenya Tanzania, I am longing to eat the fish in Dar es Salaam again, the fish that is caught by the husband of the woman who sings in the kitchen Tanzania, I am longing to visit the Mountain on the bira again, Mount Kilimanjaro that comes for the morning then hides behind cloud Tanzania, I am longing to visit the Pangani again, The river that goes from mountain to sea, the oldest history book of your country Tanzania, I am longing to visit the Masai Mara The Masai Mara the plains that animal and man cross to find their destiny Tanzania, I am longing to visit your spice islands again, Zanzibar, your elusive

For the first time in my life I truly understand what a dream boy is. You are too beautiful, too amazing, too good too exist. You have to be a dream; you must exist entirely in my dream. My dream, my boy- You whose failings I cannot see, whose flaws are qualities and imperfections are blanketed by all the perfections that you possess. Every time I walk and the thought of you comes into my mind I have to stop for fear of falling down in the middle of traffic, every time I eat and your image flutters from my heart to my head I stop chewing to stop my breathing becoming confused with my swallowing, every time I sit at the window and look out at the silhouetted rooftops late into the night and your name is whispered on the voice of the leaves as they brush up against the wind I have to hold on to the window ledge for fear of falling to death. Oh but Death for a dream boy, a true dream boy, would not be so bad. To die for complete and utter perfection and beauty and love now they are all

What thoughts do you entertain? Are they of the lovers asleep in the sand? Tin helmets with love-letters hidden inside? Turkish baths with smooth boy attendants? Dates and rice and coffee and scented tobacco? What dreams help pass the time? Ones of puberty in dams, naked and hard? Alone in sheds tasting your own stain? Being picked up by the casually dressed man? Taken to the horse paddock for your first time? What music reminds you of the passion? The beat of the ocean as the ships land at dawn? The rhythm of the waves as you embrace in the water? The lonely waltz after the radio announcement? The melody of the heart as you advance inch by inch? What thought calms the terror of the nightmare? The reality of love that was and will be? The knowledge you lived to know the taste of love? That you are making a mistake so others don't have to? That the idea of love is the only thing can start and stop crimes of hate? And now you and your ANZAC mates are together on a

The brightest of stars fell between the hills It landed in the forrest where no cars could go The lovers went there every year to see how far they could walk  When they could walk no further they would make love Two chests covered in hair tangling more with every heartbeat. The brightest of stars fell between the waves It landed in the ocean where no boats could go The lovers went there every year to see how far they could swim  When they could swim no further they would make love Four feet treading water as two heartbeats kept them afloat The brightest of stars fell between the South and the North It landed in the city of the boy who fed on Wolf's milk the lovers went there to collect and return it But they could not bare its weight so they sat it on the monument to Apollo and they made love, in the light of the brightest of stars Il più luminoso delle stelle è caduto fra le colline Ha atterrato in un più forrest dove nessun uccello avrebbe atterrato Gli amanti hanno cammina

Did I dream your face as well as this city? Or was it only the sky that I saw? Vastly black, but illuminated by the stars enough To see the blackness of the rooftop lovers outlined Oh Romulus, you never saw me did you? In the moving pictures of your mind Painted in a renaissance splendor with fading frames Like seeing ‘La Dolce Vita’ in colour- I still recall the theme song Did I walk the pavers on our road one step in front? Crossing the bridges over the river polluted Cigarette and a slight beard raising the pulse Like a glass of red wine raised to salute insatiable love Or was it you Romulus, who was one step behind? Thinking of your name-sake and his mother Drawing on this strength, and the strength of Rome herself Drawing on the ancient Roman pulse that can conquer as fast as it can fall The pavers of our road were ancient Walked over by many lovers and soldiers before This time it was our turn, slowly and quietly It could have been the dream of one your Saints Sebastian, would

I will be staying here for the time being (will keep the tumblr but not post as often on that site). Thanks for the patience folks! TIMOTHY

Dante Fiasco He decided to build a new tower of Babel Fill it with monkeys Teach them to speak He didn’t care if it took a week or a year He would have hanging gardens from the spires Tended by naked gardening boys He would train those monkeys to dig With solid silver shovels Polished by the captured Austro-Hungarian army To dig directly down Deep into the earth below the tower Until the fallen angel would have to take notice Of Dante Fiasco He wanted to meet the fallen one And offer him a soul for a question He had tried to call him up through nights ink But nothing happened The monkeys dug and earth was swept up The journalists came to see what was happening Simple lies were told the police were called Contracts were signed opposition was refused The support was forced into resignation The Vatican had no understanding And the metropolis was not modern Poor Dante Fiasco he had forgotten one thing No one was there to mop the mess The soil was unclean and had not been sifted for slande

'My biggest regret in life is not learning all the languages of the earth- To drink in every poem undiluted by the water of translation would, I think, be the greatest of pleasures' TIMOTHY