The Geranium Hotel Poems

We swallowed the stars So we could spit tiny asteroids We burnt the geraniums So we could smell of history's fire We walked against the wind So we could hear the door of Olympus close We climbed the Kenyan hill So we could see what was abandoned with care We kicked at the pumice and ash So we could remember Pliny We swam naked in the ocean So to link the old and new countries We lit the candle of religion So we could see the hand to hold We packed bags and built a castle of clay So we could hide from the angels screaming We caught the birds and tied them to the mask So they pulled us to the shore We read the books on how to love So we could recognise the temperate changes We left Greece, for Spain and Spain for a dollar So we could walk to France We made love together, alone, in the dark So we could see if we would change We stole a small boat and could see new colours at night So the dark was all velvet, the water was green We hugged chest to chest for...

Things are changing, not just the light The static is growing louder and Russia is growing closer Here, down south, I sit and admire the sun that stains skin I wonder about the size of spears and I wonder when I will travel Where are the ships that will take me? Should I follow the path to the harbour to wait Or will someone come knocking when the time comes? My door it is covered by fast growing ivy My shoes are still brand new I know the birds that come to my garden And I spy on the neighbours as they do the same Things are changing, yes The horse paddocks are close, yet I no longer go there I wonder what sort of men go there now What sort of men would take me if I was eighteen once more What would we do... you can see so many stars at the horse paddocks Before these days arrived I would have analysed my thoughts I would have taken my favourite dreams and bred them with my fantasies I would rubbed in some oil paint, some spit and some family history And written ...

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

Floorboards and soft voices telling me stories of final caresses Violins that speak in code, tapping into nerves and distracting evolution Peeling lip, stretching limb, cramping neck- no romance here Someone must know where Paradise meets the wave En el borde del paraíso Donde la onda persigue noche El horizonte atrapa dia Alguien debe saber Agressive winds that tell of authors who have fallen from favour Champaign poured into the pockets of the elderly men who read Lorca Those men who while young bathed in the water that had encircled hardened joy I can smell the bleach, I can hear the taxis, where is Paradise? En el borde del Paraiso Donde la onda persigue noche El Horizonte atrapa dia Alguien debe saber

I remember the lustrous and merciful house of God Smelling like port, opening our eyes, necessating transformation as sun burns cloud I remember being told 'Man must become golden- leave evollution to the angels' Sanctified, solitary, useless on islands of erratic activity. I remember the desire of flesh weaving its way like morning fog up off the ground Spellbound in the whispers, caught in the dew of address I remember the garden, the Iris' stem was a sword, it's flower a violet hilt Those geraniums, salmon-pink and white, making me forget those voices of God I remember you flooded the room with light  With it shining down on different a thousand angles I remember pressed flowers falling from Rimbaud's pages As you carried him from room to room I remember laughing as we broke the earth below the orange blossoms We were the arpeggio, we were those who engraved great immoral aspirations onto eternity I remember not caring about anythin...

When there is nothing to hear, no character to compare yourself to There is nothing to remind you of certain times, certain faces You climb down stairs and the light thickens as you reach the window There where your jacket and hat both hang Tea tastes the same, there are no variants, flowers stick out of vases on angles trying to catch your attention with their deep colours gazing sternly towrad you, the iris sword tries to catch you with its green blade and lilac handle You know that the wrens and sparrows would be jumping from twig to twig Their wings too fast to see, their heads cocked to one side as they move amongst blossom That is their domain, neither on the ground, nor in the sky Within the blossom of the fruit trees like victorian lovers, like school girls and gardeners Yours is within the walls, within silence, watching dust float in the angles of sunshine Making pots of tea, smoking cigarettes, coughing loudly enough for the neighbours to sometimes hear This...

I've woken up a stranger Shocking the face I see as a reflection But the deeper I look The more I am thinking How much I need to see who I am My history is a crime My disguise is a shame But the spring is here and I are wondering What is keeping me in the shadow I can hear the silence of night Break off into the day And I grab at the remnants of dawn That linger in the shadows of the garden I wish I could pocket those shadows Or at least photograph what it is that only I can see Ah, yes I have felt it And I know what exists, where safety embraces nature Love is there near a pen that is stuck into the ground Where the poplars are tall and January is forever in gilded frame There are ships that could have taken me There are fires that should have burnt me There are books that I would have written There is a dancer I should have danced with down by the lake, beneath the poplars, answering his questions about my history and dirty thoughts What is there left...