The Geranium Hotel Poems

When my heart is weighed against a feather I know the memory of all I’ve written will lighten it And the memory of the boy who leaves the bakery smelling the loaf through the paper bag The memory of Noah, who begged me to write poetry on the walls of his ark He paid me too much for my words There was no money left for the boat’s headlights Yet the sailors had cigarettes and dreams of soft skin Am memory of Saul ripping at Samuel’s cloak and Samuel becoming naked ‘The kingdom, you have lost’ he said ‘but me you shall have’. Memories of sore soldiers and blessed swords The memories of the last of the marble statues- the plaster of Paris’s design is now in vogue And the time I asked the the sun ‘How do I become a hero?’ ‘Who must I offend/defend/make love to? What offerings on what isle must I make’ The grandfather of me, he was the last of the Lotus eaters He knew the secret of man and dream The earth she ate him Death has no time for the past wr

Darkness during daytime Sunshine comes in the morning And men lean over balconies I am miles from the sea Miles from the blue darkness The blossom has given way A leafy shadow now waits for the summer The sun grabs at the tender skin of children As they confuse visions for growing up The men lean over balconies Talking their curved dialect Waving at the first flies of the year Sharing the view, forgetting the ocean The dark ocean, my feet point towards it I can hear its horn section The great rising of its strings A piano beating out a salty melody The music of Poseidon calling A cloud, winter's stray, comes back Confused by the opening of the flowers Lost, alone and looking for the cold frost It shrinks under the warm glance of spring Above the glance of men on balconies The smell of a cigarette The thought of a warm embrace The darkness of the ocean is miles away I wonder if the cloud can see it Will he fly there to spend his last days? Will he take

Smeared lipstick stains the tomb Of the thick lipped poet who shines light The angels bark and grin at the children in the street Dreams hold my hand and asks me how I feel The baker undoes the Rosemary boys fly On this cool morning in September The Elm tree stays where it first shot Through the pavement and up to the gutters But lately She feels as though she may fall Onto the bald head of the Scottish Politician Who talks to God- through a hole in the wall A vibration runs through the wooden floor Up the legs of a mongrel friend biting the hand of the Harvest Goddess, now addicted to opium tipped cigarettes Shipped from Egypt by her cousin the Jew He was exiled there for standing on a soap box And spouting poetry, written by TIMOTHY himself Somebody who was merely asking questions of himself And the thick lipped poet, the muse. The baker's pants are on the floor, though his heart is on the roof His bare arse is hot with the heat of the oven The smell of Ro

I sang a song that awoke the gods Then I saw you... And again I was silent Can't you provide me what I need? This shivering deluge of breaking weight, this parting silence that is a shameful load, a maturity that takes me into the wilting light, Terrible faith has me and I can not let go- I am  too stupid, too scared. When I try to be brave my eyes dart into the small places while my heart buzzes off reminding me of my malady. Sorrow has always told me I shall be first in her eyes, Sorrow is never one to lie. I will find a corner within my guilt and embrace what words I have left to turn to golden poetry, to write short notes of masculine breath upon my shoulder, I will turn my time into a sword that breaks open the walking days. I don't know if I want to be the crow that carries all shadow any more My sleeves were rolled up and my skin it was smooth, I moved closer to you, your pants they were undone and I could see that a ghost had entered the room. For some reason