The Geranium Hotel Poems

Drop silently so gods can walk over you In movement splendour can be gained And as mountains can reach heaven The cold moon afternoons illusions will sigh into your ear And I swore I would not lose it instead I still stand in the afternoon light Where you fleetingly glance over shoulder, over tear Bringing paint and walking roads I know I am not yours. Its your moon. It's your moon. And the loss of Olympia will scar you And the tower will house a king Who sings wildly with no fear At they who are too young to know what its like to be in love with fire. But you, you are the reason that all Athens took over the world And it is your chance to dance at the foot of the mountains of heaven Hearing the echoes of history and the ripples of the future Kicking the flower's dried carcass that sit balanced on its stalk Taking a look while talking and minute by minute passed I wonder what would be the case if we changed direction Yesterday I saw a fire destroy my hero

Take to the woods and walk amongst the dead flower heads Do you pretend you are alone or pretend you have company? There amongst the forgotten roads that lead to gorges and plains Would you have followed leaders that would have discovered them for mapping purposes Maybe ultimately crawling into their tents to cut their throats or make love to them Unreasonably meeting the voices that are deep and come into your dreams You become jealous of the seasons and jealous of the sliding clouds Nobodies fault and nobodies victim you fall into the mindset That nobody will call your name at night, nobody will miss you And I don't know if you should write autobiographies dedicated to the street Wearing gritted smiles on one end with worn out shoes on the other But you are the son with the golden hair, you are the son with the broad shoulders I'm not going to sing the song that is about your life, about your voice About the times  you have fallen behind And with all the lett

The prettiest flower in the garden Could never match the warmest blanket in winter And I, when I am wrapped in this blanket I see colours That my eyes have stolen from this prettiest flower And I feel I am the size of a strawberry flower Yet my heart wants something the size of a hot air balloon And all I can taste is the roasts of childhood Burnt, but tasty And I want to count the syllables Written within every letter from a friend in London She has blue eyes The man I love has dark eyes I have grey eyes And there is another who also has dark eyes For every bar of music The nausea rides the ocean Like a broken pin Stuck into a champagne cork And the music never stops Like the Ocean that the cork must traverse I never like to think of my paranoia I never like to think of my childhood roasts Somewhere there is a beach Full of corks and waxy wings Slowly sinking, slowly becoming aware of the weight And the isolation And

High grass in the haze of melody Summer intrusions and the smoke is lit Soft kiss of introduction Nothing too offensive I noticed your facial hair More than any frame of sexuality Can’t ask for more than your breath Pushing against mine And the sweet music is played Pretending it is summer It almost fools us But the smell of the ashtray Filled with water and the cigarette filter rowboats Brings us back to the damp autumn day that it is Our scarves keep our necks warm But I believe it should be each other’s arms Slung like shawls over shoulder and nape Like comrades in photographs Or friends on the beach Covering the skin that is tender and white Soon to be burnt and reddened by the wind and sun Ah the summer it always returns Here we must sit though And what of it? Are we not content to watch cars drive Their headlights turned on although it is day Making other’s aware that they exist Like us with our bright eyes S

Totally brilliant The way your face is disabled Washed off from attachment To the city, to the men To the bugs that land on and amongst The hairs on your naked arm It is a wonder of the world Your face How it is the curtain of oblivion When men dressed in suits With fine weaves and finer seams Look at you as your hand hangs Down like the unappreciated attachment In a renaissance portrait of a boy Of a lady Of a man With eyes that tell no history That these men could bother to relate to   Yet they stare at you And they want to be apart of yours If only for one night To feel that hand Resting on the hairs That bend out of their chests Like reeds from muddy marshes Your eyes watch your foot As it passes the other A mirror walking in front of the other And you wonder how so many rocks Can be found To make up all the roads and pavements While your face stares blankly As calm as a bay before the seagulls rise A