The Geranium Hotel Poems

I can't get over any sort of past So all I do is walk in the garden I no longer write any more words My shelves are already too heavy The city's paint is still wet And the urine is salty I assaulted the stars until the sun came up And I found myself covered in sand Brilliant ocean Your floor is covered in weeds I want to walk in your garden I write no more words Look at all those trees So large and happy to be in this heatwave I will give everything away The heat in my groin The lines on my palm The salt on my lips The light in my eyes I am the drifting club of haiku borders The motherless country of Japan I will walk through the garden I, like Rome, was once so loud Now there are no more words Just Bell-Flowers and forests Churches that mean nothing And walls that decay The past is the new horoscope And I listen for the plants as they try to break free

It's how we perceive the void that propels the little stones Across our eyes and views It's how we stop to listen to the sleepy sighs In the hours between the lines of darkness And the dirtier we get the less chance there is To be invited to watch the marbles fall against the worn ground But the fog shall envelope us As the sea is whipped into a subservient pond Yet her revenge will be to give the gift of pace To a boy who can run like a river in flood And the trouble starts when the reeds all curl back With the wind in our hair While the birds all land upon the prowls to watch And remember when the hope has been released From the skeletal bonds We must sing the songs of men and their lovers Their politics and their odes Yet when the brash move forward on their hands and thier knees They will hear the pipes and see the drops of sweet Fall from their brows to the clay ground And there will be no reverberations from the rocks that fly Like flies on fire or...

Fairy boys and books on shelves I fear the authors will never explain Treasure chests and soiled papers No the Author need never explain I hold the lunacy so close to my heart Like Cyparissus held his deer And when at last I spear it with a javelin sharp I will take root and be strong and weep my milky sap There is no amour for the author only paper and hollow drawers Years of clinging fingers clawing at the scratchy straw That is harvested by the young men sun burnt and brown and well fed Their fingers fat and used to tossing tobacco to the gods Apollo... Saint Sebastian... Dionysus O! what a threesome The Author won't explain Why should he He finds the steady rhythm and leaves a mark A nasty stain He looks at the cathedrals He looks at the museums He wears his Jacket, because the rain is going to come And he will seduce you He will stab you with arrows, with javelins, he will guide Paris's bow And he need never explain