Words Of Innocence And Preservation

It's hard to say when I will see you next
The ground is cold and the leaves haven't come
I wake up early as the light comes in
I guess it won't be long, it won't be long
Everything seems like a lost and faded painting
The only valuable thing being the frame
The only musical thing left are the children in the street
The rattling of the prams in the apartments upstairs
And the old women habitually try on their old dresses
Before thinking of the new issues that are plaguing their honest thoughts
I recorded your face last time I saw you
Its printed like the digits on my watch against my mind's chest
I hold a knife to my dictionary, knowing I have to be asked
I hold a knife to my expectations knowing I am to be old
There are cars on the curbs, clovers growing at my feet
Mowers to mow the three leaves, mowers to mow the four leaves
Your shoulders will be kept back
My shoes will be polished, and the silences will be kept apart
Kept distant by memories spoken and acknowledged
I think I know this is all too much
This waiting for you to grow old and meet me again
We are two songs next to one another
Running into one another
Different tempos yet we have the same themes
Love and Time, words of innocence and preservation
We will meet again, sitting silently listening to the music
And finding the four leaf clovers to press in dictionaries carved with knives

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lake Daff-Dilly

Image
Fish on the water Scales floating back and forth Grey clouds hanging high White clouds beneath A naked man asleep Drowsy with whiskey Strange sunlight on his calves His chest slowly rising, slowly falling The smell of wild herbs Smoke from the kitchen fire Sex on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly Old myths talk of death The women think of birth Some wish they could leave The men pray on boats Trout stumble in their wake Drunk on the water's cold The flies were made by old hands The rod belonged to a dead uncle God I hope there is more whiskey The fire is still going I want you on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly
Read more

Blind Me And Guide Me

Image
What is it you want me to believe in? Is it the flock of birds flying like joined roses floating The peak of sensual age? I turn Twenty Nine and the climax is mine The plea of a generation held together by torture? The torture of the prophets- Whitman, he nurses us Is it the course touch of a hand roughened by sand and rock? The path that applauses every step to Sodom The generous buddhist- bearded with eyes closed? In bed with the russian before dawn, We Let Him Down! The cold winter warmed by cynicism and a centuries irony? You can warm my arse with your country charm The poets lining their pockets with fools gold? Lining up to be shot by the artists- a war with out generals The skeleton with eyes to the stars? Awake and noticing how the apple never rots Is it the shop keeper that keeps everything shaded? The man who keeps a statue of Apollo at the bottom of his pool The mongrel God of Egypt and Babylon? So large his nose was singed by the sun Is it the song of hope written in the s
Read more

Whose Language Will I Speak?

Image
Allow me a little time to rest the clamour Upon the contours of your form The mirror gaze within your reply Will flash and fall and rise and build response Verbal shouts and gutteral groans In my room we both are right In hotels we are wrong Where will we die? Where will we scatter? Face down, lovers bodies, Russian grasses, Russian ice Before that I will paint you I will bury you in colour, on canvas While you tell me of your youth Of chasing birds and pretending you could fly The clamour is merely collection of one stands A collection of songs Trapped within my head, resting on your form And the guardian angles are sculpted into the architecture And I can see beautiful shade below your stomach As your leg is raised and it is an arch One to hold and make prayers from As I bow down and taste the flesh of man What will happen to us? Where will you die? You who was born to the poet and the siren Where will I go? Me, the hunter who has yet to return from the hi
Read more