Bouquet

I saw the postured seating
- face forward - chin up -
But an empty plate for eating.

Flies thrummed buzzing wings
- hollowed out - dripping down -
Feasting on the heartstrings. 

Your corpse used as a flower vase
- water held - death dwelled - 
Adorned in maggot petal grace.

Thames Gin Headache

Chipped polish on keratin
Formed instruments of misery
Against the carved ivory candlestick,
But played in time and one half
Between clicked wooden heels
And shuffle scuffed leather toes. 
Shrieking warped wood boards
Bemoaned the restless pacing
Until eased by the storm’s drippings
Rolled from the oversaturated linen.

Youth kept the nightdress white,
Precisely creased on double pleat
Perfumed in almond and rice starch.
The insipidness of immaturity
Creeped up the ironed dart lines
To satiate the linen’s thirst for spoil,
And seeped into the recurring path
In a bogged mix of clay and blood.
The sludge had smudged the vows
Between the ruby and diamond ring.

Lightning had taken exception,
Or so it would have seemed,
To the metal cockerel above the well.
It’s striking boldly lit the sodden grass
To illuminate a solitary jacquard spat
Encased, leather, side button boot.
He’d sworn himself inconspicuous once,
Yet adorned himself so pretentiously
For the eyes of the unwed maidens
On the night he was intended to wed.

The dusty manor house windows
Did not hide the ostentatious footwear
From the overwhelmed on looker
As she bit her nails cuticle bare.
Had he simply fallen, she’d be asleep
For the drunkard had overindulged
On pints of overtaxed Thames Gin.
But he cracked his crown on limestone
Before his legs lost the ability to hold
His brainless form to full attention.

Inebriation settled most heavily
In the bones of his shaking wheeze.
Had not the split of his mindless skull
Incapacitated his conscious movement,
His well wished departure would be,
To the greatest of detest and chagrin,
Replaced by opiate coma numbing
As his bride rode Peeler’s prize
In a carted cage of lucid lunacy
And cursed language of wicked folk.

Luck had been her bedfellow,
Strength her mightiest gift giver,
And determination: her kind muse.
No sooner could he groan in ache
Than his moaning was quick silenced 
In the crunch of crumbled spine
That met with a barren dark age well.
Her hand warmed by the liquid wax,
She stopped pacing to reflect with joy
At the sickening sound of lifelessness.

Spirit of the Sprite

The day has too few a sunrise to explore
But the innumerous colours are counted
In ritual along the distant early skyline anyway. 
Beyond the principle of merely being, 
There's the principle of endless sight seeing
Fluttering on the delicate iridescent wingtip. 
Although all sights are born of intrinsic good, 
Reality requires a respite of recuperation
So the sprite may realign it's own energies. 

Wrapped in nature's most pastoral gifts
The sprite feasts on the bounty of true justice:
Nourished by the fundamentals of harmony
So it may be vibrant in passionate expression.
Though delicate to the lowly observing eye, 
The spirit of the sprite is bodaciously hardy,
Fearlessly inspired by the very air it breathes:
Time had tested itself, and failed to win battle
Against the ethereal protector of land and sea.

Breccia

A beautifully imperfect creation, 
Mottled in angst and frustration,
Capturing stray drops of sunlight
To warm you on the colder nights. 
The open evening air calls you
To gain that moment of solitude
Between the sediments of thought
Lined and calmed in melodies. 
You don't absorb or reflect
When bathing in the day's light, 
But refract polychromatic splendour
Through your fused shrapnel.
Each playing piece considered and
Placed within the web of fragments
Builds a mosaic of endurance:
A tenacious testament of truth, 
Boldly embraced through fractures
And acknowledged reality splinters. 
The weathered debris of survival
Formed you a formidable warrior
Encased in your own clast armour:
Sharply witted within awareness, 
Yet dynamically poised, prepared 
For metamorphic elevation.

Meretricious

She lacks symmetry.
In the curve of the looking glass
She’s obtuse,
Deliberate in naivety.
Her melody chants emptily
Constricting her harmony to base notes:
Rooted and diatonic
Yet obliquely tuned, off key.
She reflects with the clarity
That only the distorted can:
Off-balance and perfectly malformed.
In the eye of creation
She’s a falsified sequence
Sat between design and serendipity.
A constellation unmapped
For her rising suns are only set
And her moons are drowned
In the tides they made.
There’s no happenstance here,
To her, existence is a gift.
The opportunity to remould
The kinetic sand in which she swims
So it may smooth the surface
To form a meretricious shine.

The Girl That Could Dance

Outstretched legs that could reach the sky,
And nails long enough to lose an eye.
Curves small and soft, but defined and outlined,
Face tight, flawless, and often kind.
Pointed toes that swept deftly, precise,
And affection that came at a price,
Back tickled with golden hair,
A body most beautiful bare.
Elegant movements, jeté, plié,
Childish as very cliché.
Parents who raised their child right,
With the grace of a mythic sprite.

Shame everyone else had loved her too.

The Woman Wore Purple

​I had spent many hours with her,
​Both young and grown.
I had grown beside her kin,
With a mother who shared her blood.
 
She was reckless in my mother’s eyes,
Wild as the wind that she flew on.
A woman who lived by no law,
But by principle of her own heart.
 
She near always smiled at me,
And she laughed at my cynicisms.
We drank several nights away,
At the bar, or on the step of a shop door.
 
Like many young, I fled the nest,
Spread my wings for lands afar,
Leaving them all behind me,
But visiting with growing infrequency.
 
On my return there would be happy reunion,
Drinks, songs, smokes, smiles, laughs.
Gatherings of the now grown and their young,
Besides our elders now older once more.
 
But time did fly by quicker,
And 15 months seems to blink fast.
And soon I am beckoned back,
Returning to see her again.
 
My mother, as always,
Holding the hands of my family,
As a means to hold their souls, their bodies,
And their strength, in an upwards fashion.
 
Me, smiling through, as taught,
Showing that the living are not afraid.
I hold her hair 'twix my fingers,
And braid in flowers as we laugh.
 
I roll her smokes, before my own,
The legality of them questionable,
As she waves between here and there,
Jittery with fear of being wedded.
 
I paint over the hollowing skin,
Lighten her sunken eyes,
With a mixture of tones, pigments,
Creams and powders, brushes and sponges.
 
The clocks strikes and the camera clicks,
She grins as she is wheeled along,
I press the button as she makes vows,
Promises to be short lived and kept.
 
We drank, we smoked, we laughed,
I sang, for she couldn’t any longer,
I walked for her, towing the chair,
And navigated with care and fear.
 
Family gathered, united, strong again,
Smiling at the simple pictures I captured,
Wondering at the beauty of her,
Of her soul, of her love.
 
The woman wore purple,
As a bride, draped in purple and white,
As a mother, through waking night,
As my aunt, when hugging me tight.
 
The woman wore purple,
And when I saw her last, she wore it still.
Though I’ll never see her again,
I know the woman wears purple.

The Guitarist

He stands upon his stage, 
Guitar in hand. 
With no introduction, he plays. 

Fingers perform a double speed foxtrot, 
Teasing notes with finesse. 
Bouncing harmonics with flare, 
As he cascades the frets. 

He stops. pauses. Soaks in applause. 
He changes his tuning, 
He changes his presence, 
Encapsulating his audience softly. 

Without warning, a palm-muted strum
Races against the previous timing, 
Deep, trembling chords shake 
In between the rhythmic pattern, 
Tattooing their sound in the ears 
Of all those it teases. 

Then, without a strum, 
The notes stream down the mountain, 
Quenching the thirst of the dehydrated. 
The second hand joins, 
The current ebbs in a new direction, 
As the intensity builds. 

Serenity concludes this piece. 

He takes a seat upon the stage, 
Looks upon his worshippers, 
Momentarily. 
But then dedicates all attention, 
To the curved bust on his lap, 
Trails his fingers along her elongated neck, 
Tempting new notes from her strings. 

The double handed caress, 
Leaves her trembling melodies, 
Harmonies, scales and patterns. 
Her wooden form obliges, 
Becomes slave to her master, 
And ensnares all who hear her pleasure. 

The sound reaches its climax, 
Leaving a room full of onlookers, 
Satisfied, sated and desiring more. 

The guitarist bows, 
And says 'thank you '

Over Coffee

Come on in.
Tea? Coffee?
Ah, coffee, good choice.
I'll just top up the cafetiere.

Your pictures,
Serve you but little justice,
You're attraction,
Is in the eyes,
Not the red reflection.

Your mannerisms,
Most enticing,
And the level of ease,
The flow of conversation,
Magnificent.

Over a coffee,
I learned you,
Realized your significance,
The role you play,
In my small life.
The options you open,
The knowledge you offer.

Over a simple coffee,
We laughed,
Smiled together.
Enjoyed the bliss,
Of casual conversation