The Geranium Hotel Poems

Big old dusty road Near a big old antique house Where the light is different And the flowers bloom We pissed out windows And we never left The water was sweet The gate was brown rust The pine trees encroached But the Grasses fought their war The light was different there Night was safe with falling stars Barbed wire for my good fortune Rabbit hole observations We never wanted to travel We never built time machines Didn't need, never wanted Food from the ground Not from chef hats or stars We were beautiful Soft, hard, angry and full of feeling The light was different The snow would cover The heat would blanket The Water caused minds to fall Willow had it's rock Granite had it's moss We had our dusty roads to walk The fox had its nest The wren had its sky We left that antique land The garden died, although the mint still grows The rabbit still kicks through the fence The clouds still carry the dust And the light is still the same

Floorboards and soft voices telling me stories of final caresses Violins that speak in code, tapping into nerves and distracting evolution Peeling lip, stretching limb, cramping neck- no romance here Someone must know where Paradise meets the wave En el borde del paraíso Donde la onda persigue noche El horizonte atrapa dia Alguien debe saber Agressive winds that tell of authors who have fallen from favour Champaign poured into the pockets of the elderly men who read Lorca Those men who while young bathed in the water that had encircled hardened joy I can smell the bleach, I can hear the taxis, where is Paradise? En el borde del Paraiso Donde la onda persigue noche El Horizonte atrapa dia Alguien debe saber

I remember the lustrous and merciful house of God Smelling like port, opening our eyes, necessating transformation as sun burns cloud I remember being told 'Man must become golden- leave evollution to the angels' Sanctified, solitary, useless on islands of erratic activity. I remember the desire of flesh weaving its way like morning fog up off the ground Spellbound in the whispers, caught in the dew of address I remember the garden, the Iris' stem was a sword, it's flower a violet hilt Those geraniums, salmon-pink and white, making me forget those voices of God I remember you flooded the room with light  With it shining down on different a thousand angles I remember pressed flowers falling from Rimbaud's pages As you carried him from room to room I remember laughing as we broke the earth below the orange blossoms We were the arpeggio, we were those who engraved great immoral aspirations onto eternity I remember not caring about anythin

When there is nothing to hear, no character to compare yourself to There is nothing to remind you of certain times, certain faces You climb down stairs and the light thickens as you reach the window There where your jacket and hat both hang Tea tastes the same, there are no variants, flowers stick out of vases on angles trying to catch your attention with their deep colours gazing sternly towrad you, the iris sword tries to catch you with its green blade and lilac handle You know that the wrens and sparrows would be jumping from twig to twig Their wings too fast to see, their heads cocked to one side as they move amongst blossom That is their domain, neither on the ground, nor in the sky Within the blossom of the fruit trees like victorian lovers, like school girls and gardeners Yours is within the walls, within silence, watching dust float in the angles of sunshine Making pots of tea, smoking cigarettes, coughing loudly enough for the neighbours to sometimes hear This

I've woken up a stranger Shocking the face I see as a reflection But the deeper I look The more I am thinking How much I need to see who I am My history is a crime My disguise is a shame But the spring is here and I are wondering What is keeping me in the shadow I can hear the silence of night Break off into the day And I grab at the remnants of dawn That linger in the shadows of the garden I wish I could pocket those shadows Or at least photograph what it is that only I can see Ah, yes I have felt it And I know what exists, where safety embraces nature Love is there near a pen that is stuck into the ground Where the poplars are tall and January is forever in gilded frame There are ships that could have taken me There are fires that should have burnt me There are books that I would have written There is a dancer I should have danced with down by the lake, beneath the poplars, answering his questions about my history and dirty thoughts What is there left