The Different Light


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





Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

THE RIDDLE, THE FLAW, AND THE PUNISHMENT

Image
If I am beautiful am I real? Like the boys on the 24th floor They are beautiful I don't know how to reach them I don't know how they got there Are they real? Are they the small book of poems Left beneath Sebastian's tree A page for each face A sonnet for each precious, beautiful, life of the boys on the 24th floor Each pulling at the others clothes baring chests and thighs some smooth like stone Some coarse with hair like velvet If I am beautiful Do I exist Do these boys on the 24th floor exist? Are they merely the temperature, the weather? The blush across my cheeks? How do I find this hidden floor? Where the bed is a sacred alter Holding those Beautiful fellows Are the words of the bible A book for each? Or merely strains of Liliaceae Showing their holy strength in the force of their stalk and colour They are the beautiful Those boys on the 24th We artist and poets we search for ever And what of us? Are we not beautiful? Are we not real? Why is it we never find the 24th...
Read more

The Moon is a Transvestite

The Moon is the greatest of Transvestites She holds the bruises of school bullies Her makeup is better than any lady you will meet Better than my bullish sister Better than the painted prostitutes of media Better than the young men of music The Moon she gets up on stage once a month Puts on her sequinned show Parading and dancing and showing us the theatre or romance and space And then she will slowly draw her blinds Closes her door Allows herself to rest Sitting on her favourite lounge Wearing her favourite satin gown Watching reruns of an old detective show I love The Moon
Read more

An Ode To Pain

Image
You just drink to get drunk to dance And you just dance to have a brief taste of myth You don't shave sometimes to feel criminal And when you do you feel exceptionally last century The music you listen to was written by a man with woolly hair His cock was large and his genius was broad He found he could run fast when the rock fences were falling As you found were decidedly slow But the punches and the kicks felt alright Something to write to Frederico about An ode to pain perhaps, an ode to Sadism And where will the return address be? What land, city, bridge? Are you to dwell in the orchard all your life Pissing against the same trees as the other artists? Sleeping on top of the shadows, trying to slow the light Did you ever hear the myth of the Frenchman and the sailor? The Sailor fucked the Frenchman upon a ship that was carrying peaches From America to the port of Lamoux The more they fucked the more peaches were destroyed Until by the time they were hit b...
Read more