The Geranium Hotel Poems

All the love I have in me And every definition of that word let them be planted in earth let music pour over them, radiant Allow the birds to be the guardians Aggressive, wise, awake I can hear the music now I can become what I want I will let the claws rip at my chest Let the love fall out Let the shovel, the pick, the axe All hit the stone, the dirt, the ground Let the great hole be opened I can hear the murmur of the earth as it is moved do not be influence, hear your own truth Hear the hammer against the temple of imagination Open the doors, smell the iron as it hits the chain The blue quartz and the grey granite The look of the picture as your see As your eyes open for the first time The mind empties, yet you are full Your lungs breath air Ancient and new Can you tell that this is the love The love you have buried How can we not be influenced by ourselves From our own actions? How can we empty the truths and the definitions? The omens and the message

The great piano exploded, as I took it upon the train We were bound for africa, Guinea Fowl flying with us I caught the invitation disease from a man called Leslie He had lived the rich life for most of his, he was lucky, metallic I looked out the window at the wheelbarrow view It was my holiday, it made me think of medicine and Christ A remedy for some, a pain for others Ivory coasts were sold to the men from the chain-gang I sang my own harmony to the corpse in the cap  I had to face the problem of leaving I had to be reminded of dumb fact, shining colour Nothing reminds me, so, why ask questions of ego? Sermons written upon orange rocks, on buildings We lost our ability to choose, we lost our ability to swim The center of the ocean held one man in a boat He was taking off all his clothes, dizzy, about to sink into velvet Green, bright, spheres of light shooting upward Everything meaning more than he himself could believe in  The last flower h

Jonathan, the publishers have not called today, only my mother She says she has a brain tumour, merely benign, a bruise, a shadow,  Jonathan, I trust you will keep this to your self for now,  I don't want the world thinking she is dying, when she isn't While on the phone to my mother, while thinking of you I noticed that, the perfect silver owl that you bought me has gone missing It saddened me and I couldn't explain it It was the last thing of you in my house, except for your letters Except for the Iris that you planted out by the gate, while singing Persian folk songs Jonathan, I was always your student, with crooked buttons and dirty face Happy to follow you, to smell your scent mixed with aftershave,  Listening to you as you spoke of countries that no longer exist, Hearing of your friends, the priest, the latin teacher, the poet and the sailor Feeling you put your arm around me, or smelling your cooking in the evenings Your laugh was loud,