Self Centered



Books will never be written
On your features, on your disguises
Yet I feel I have read whole volumes
Dusty, leather bound, illustrated and indexed
Telling of your life and mysterious smile

If I was an artist I would cast you in bronze
And place you atop a fountain of champagne

I graffitied your name in the canyon of hope
On your birthday I threw lilies into the pond of the poet

I hid a horsewhip in a bouquet of geraniums
I buried my pen in the orange grove of Alexandria
All because of you
And the feelings I get throughout my flyblown frame

My bird so quiet, so self centred and far
Your cage is the land, your sadness the sky
I know of your brilliance, I saw it in the park
I know of your aloofness, I fear it every day

I hid verses of ancient poems throughout your town
Sappho, Li po, Catullus, Ovid and Horrace
This was my correspondence

Yet you preferred the poets themselves
Great stern busts hidden in mossy gardens covered in ivy
For you to run your smooth hands across
Staring stony eyes for you to gaze into
Would you have thought of me?
Or would you have heard that lone violin?
That soft Austrian waltz
And cried
Like a bird so quiet, so self centred and far...








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