The Geranium Hotel Poems

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...

The shadow that leaks from the open fly The denim is stiff from too many drinks Spilt in the crotch of the whiskey husband And the floating applecores fly through the air Softening the ancient Skin that has been passed from the Romans Like a lesson learnt from history Your family tree carries nails in it's trunk And a young man with a deer horn knife has carved the initial of a man into the bark Not unlike the bark of a tree fallen on its side Somewhere in an August, Somewhere with horses in the night The vibrations are being strangled with the whiskey breath And all the stars are reflected in the fest drop of excitement You can smear it, you can taste it Sweeter than any sweet you can rot your teeth with And the mobile phones with all the friends Are merely the new notches on the butt of the flintlock pistol And the bruises next to the notch are the marks from the cane While the warm beer has been drunk and then sprayed all over the white moon To calm the mur...

The prettiest flower in the garden Could never match the warmest blanket in winter And I, when I am wrapped in this blanket I see colours That my eyes have stolen from this prettiest flower And I feel I am the size of a strawberry flower Yet my heart wants something the size of a hot air balloon And all I can taste is the roasts of childhood Burnt, but tasty And I want to count the syllables Written within every letter from a friend in London She has blue eyes The man I love has dark eyes I have grey eyes And there is another who also has dark eyes For every bar of music The nausea rides the ocean Like a broken pin Stuck into a champagne cork And the music never stops Like the Ocean that the cork must traverse I never like to think of my paranoia I never like to think of my childhood roasts Somewhere there is a beach Full of corks and waxy wings Slowly sinking, slowly becoming aware of the weight And the isolation And ...

These days are days of electronic stores These days are days of giant phalluses falling on the children These days are full of Echo's soft call These days are days where church organs are burnt for warmth These days are days saturated with the love for airconditioning, spewing forth from office to office These days are days of naked men hiding in cubicles These days are days of love numbed beneath the leaves of trees These days are full of poetry being buried beneath the tarmac These days the mice are too tired to chew the bowstrings of the raging enemy These days I refuse to ponder on how deep the ocean is These days the urge to live grows heavier in my stomach These days drastic is a word that is used less These days are days with melodies and codas These days there are sun showers and beach burials And there are harmonies, there are photographs, there are memories These days I read books, written by saints, and I wonder- I wonder No diamond rings remain for the...

Rocket toothpaste on our lips and Stupid, Sour Cupid scratches at the window Guns explode within the closet and we rush for the sea side Where the liquid foundations are chemical floorboards Ready to melt beneath our grasping, gasping forms Here we lie in merit and honour- lost in what is seemly delight Here behind lies of dead ancestors and the costumes of yesterdays flash Do you believe? are you a believer in the dreamers and cloud counters? Do you walk the sodden carpets to where the door stands ajar? Allowing darkness to be the metaphor for Hephaestus' extinguished flames Things here are tight and things here are stretched Like a root bound elm tree forcing its way through rock and pavement We are the lovers and the swearers and the stained cigarette smoke Moaning and moping through streets unthought of Where great dead men bow down to the poets and the naked soldiers Hairy chests are combed by the winds from arrows And we all feel alive as a melody is plucked...