Bow-Bend-Break

Feeling caught, stuck in God’s hypothetical conversation.
Nothing like him, nothing like them.
Just ordinary and irresponsible.
Rama and Jesus toy with me, threatening debt collections.
I see this for what it is, out of hymn books and mythological mantras.
Dizzied by the nirvana.
Which holy right keeps me scratching at the door, faltering on each sin that snuffles at my own?
Crush me with sandalwood beads and drown my lungs in incense.
My blood is yours and bleeds a pious pigment.
Down on such bended knees.
How long till it ends, or until the world is created?
Leave me to count the spines of the leviathan that I follow down into the deep.
To the innermost depths of an Edenistical land washed clean by the flood.
Sipping antibiotics and feasting on scraps.
Clipping my own wings.

A linguistic form that can meaningfully be spoken in isolation

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Sacred sinners

On a night like this, as the clouds cover the moon.
Or is it your hand reaching up to the sky?
Reaching towards heaven, trying to pull over the milky way.
Your feet stick into the mud of our circumstance.
Arms tarred and feathered like mine.
Your lips have known a thousand others.
Tasted a million other apples.
Lucifer in my hands, yet the Satan in my heart.
A name chained in irons and weighed down with history.
Yet to my eyes you are future, dipped in stars & the clouds you fell through.
They nailed me to the tree, they never knew love.
Letting me bleed out until the oil fell forth.
You cut me down and you hold me now.
Kissing the scars, wiping away the ink that burned.
I clip my wings and lay you in your my feathers and down.
Feeling my saliva sizzle on your skin.
Let us pull the soil over us and sleep forever in our own Eden.
Lucifer and Jesus, locked in eternity; or as long as the world rotates.
Orbiting the sun, and listening to the solar system.
Hiding from God.

Contract & construct

That reason we all had for being there.
Through shared DNA and the tears of Jesus.
Waiting for the smoke to clear and the dust to settle.
Yet deep inside a fire burns.
Turning all to ashes and cleansing from within.
Who do you ask forgiveness off?
As you hand across a world that is riddled with pain.
What did you blame as you clung to indifference?
When the world darkened as black as the night.
But do not drown in this consequence.
Or be blown away in this havoc.
It maybe all borrowed time, but it’s ours to own.
And the rest is still unwritten.

A church in the heart

He came to that place.
Where they all disappeared.
Where their hearts had stopped beating.
Ghosts clung to the air like static electricity.
Sucking up souls.
Licking their lips.
A mumbled prayer drifted from his most pious mouth.
Strung out like pearls on the ocean floor.
Saints prevailed, blessed father above and below.
And then time unwound.
Flashed back like traffic.
They breathed life again, resurrected in this space.
Hungry after so long away.
Choking up rosary beads and blood.
A prayer to save us all.
Or to condemn those departing.
In the end, only God may judge them.

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Sink & swim

Washed up on the tide, scorched in tangerine sun. 
Shipwrecked and cynical, like the pirate in your mind. 
You placed it there, you wore it out. 
Alone in that head the reaches back like a cave. 
Echoing into epochs and the seconds of anxious. 
The most agitated state 
Fondled by that well worn hand that caresses.  
Inside the box of lost and found. 
Stroked like a watermelon. Sucked like a sour feeling. 
Sting the sweet, let it drip on your tongue. 
Rubbing honey across your teeth like a bear. 
Catching bees with bread.  
All deflates, and retracts. 
Sighed out in theatrics and cosmic tears.
Leave it to dry in the sun once more. 
Stretched out like Jesus and the saints in your soul.  
Take the pebbles out of the pockets.  
Replace them with diamonds and blocks of gold. 
Then walk. 
Slowly, and with purpose into the lake of the twinkling now. 

Sacred heart

You say it’s all in my head.
But I know you’re breaking free, lifting out of this.
The silencing of souls.
An end must always have a start.
But I’m calling out for your help.
With every spread of your wing, the feathers ripped into me.
I turned your heart to stone, when I should have covered it in gold.
The sacred treasure you gave to me.
The walls were thin, and it fell to easy
I stepped on it with my muddy shoes, squeezing out the oxygen and love.
Now I’m in the court of the karma kings, waiting for the sentence.
Waiting to be shown which way to go.
The thief who stole all at the beginning, hungry for the love.
Becoming the custodian of your sacred heart.
Only to wind up with empty hands and lonely tears.
Benedetto sia il cuore più affettuoso.
Ci riportano alla bella partenza.

Recovering the riches

Sold my bones for gold, to buy you back from death.
To resurrect our love. The Lazarus that is dormant in us.
This Faustian pact will lead to regret years from now.
But I had to.
Breathing life into our love, feeling for the pulse. Gluing the pieces back together.
I drain my blood and fill my skin with sand.
So you no longer haemorrhage anymore.
You’re a wash with hate and the after-birth of our arguing.
Cast out this demon, the one that had rooted within me.
Between us.
Forever tapping at your brain.
I’ll hew the rocks from the mountain, moving it aside while you drift into recovery.
Laying you on the sea of flowers I’ve plucked from every stem in the world.
Resurrecting your devotion.
Mouth to mouth.
Licking the emotions that drip onto your skin.
Covering you in diamonds and saccharin.
The artificial sweetener till you seep out the sugar once more.
My doubts and anger are hanging now for the crows, crucified in the Gomorrah of my heart.
All that’s left is hope, the perpetual motion machine with me.
Emeralding your spirit, polishing your precious golden soul.

Meet the maker

Grandma died at a quarter to three.
Right before her cake and tea.
She’d gone to church and prayed like the rest.
Hoped for peace, and always tried her best.
To be like Jesus and love each other.
She even prayed harder for her sick older brother.
Yet it was she God took, that lazy Sunday.
At number 40, in her living room doorway.
Collapsed on the floor, her hands to her chest.
Stricken in pain, nearing the final rest.
For it seemed God had for her a different plan.
Then tea and cake, and the weatherman.
And what is more, it pains me to say.
That Grandma was not even in her twilight days.
For poor Grand Ma Ma was only 70.
And had gone the bathroom to spend a penny.
Yet down she was struck, tripping over her pug.
Smashed her head on the door like a hand to a bug.
It was a silly demise and lacked any dignity.
As she’d glared at the dog before meeting her destiny.
No moments of poise or thoughts of her brother.
Her last action on earth was to exclaim ‘’Mother fucker!’’

Colour my direction

Dreams, again complicating my life.
They swing their megaphone and make me no longer breathe.
Diving deep, fill my lungs in my chest as they weigh heavy.
Underwater, and the unsettling sound of silence.
Swimming in the dark, where no-one will see if I drown.
They force me to murmur out a sound. An action.
A sleep twitch.
Taking off with little beats. Like coloured balls escaping.
A Personal pilgrimage to land in your lap.
Hold me in your crossed arms, talk to me of the Passion.
Your passion.
Fade into my hue and join me. Linked in gravity.
Seeking rainbows, as I carry the weight of my world.
Imitating life. We have it all.

Crushed chalk to diamond dust

They did not see, our crucifixion wasn’t televised.
The day you broke down, and held my hand.
Swimming in chalk, dusting it off our clothes.
Feeling so low and desperate.
The soft surrender of hopelessness.
But we did not die, we did not fade into white.
A burst of control and all the things they’ll never know.
Our resurrection, in colour and flesh and bone.
Just a matter of time now until they paint our picture.
Hang it on the wall where the wolves devour other hearts.
Stronger, from here on out.

Painted pony

Kick kick, pick up sticks.
Silly words and magic tricks.
Happy to smile, angry to cry.
Rub in reasons, formaldehyde.
Hold on, breathe it in. Think of England and let me win.
Drink it down, ask for seconds. More than you can chew? Who knew?
Cup of coffee? Cup of tea?
Mind your manners, some sympathy?
The devil is here, the devil inside. Exorcise or exercise?
Praise be Jesus, praise be Allah. Bang bang, the final hour.
Mangling words of meaning mouthfuls. All this starts to feel too phoney.
Rip it up, call me out. Your loveable and lonely, one trick pony.
Going round and round and round and round.

Lexicon and lightning storms

Play those words like cards, split from the stacked deck.
Forever in your favour.
I’m tripping, and sticking to the toffee words on your tongue.
You led me here, with poisoned breadcrumbs and the promise of perfection.
Your mouth looks so tempting, as clean as an oven.
I tried to be all for you, without crucifying who I was.
Your spear of our destiny digs in deeper, seeing what’s left inside.
Blood and broken dreams frozen in tears.
Spill me, fill me. No longer thrilling me with thoughts of tomorrow.
The dark clouds roll in and I see your quickening quarrel gather speed.
I put up my umbrella towards the oncoming deluge, fixing the weather vane to my heart.
Swirling in the confusion, the hurricane of you anger.
I let go and drown in the onslaught of your hypocrisy.
Battered against your will, struck by your electric storm.
Drifting in the debris of you and me.

Complex reference points

Please don’t talk, it makes me think.
My head shudders as your eyes roll.
It makes me hide the knifes, and text books. My homework on discovering you.
You bite my hands and pretend you’re a tiger. Chasing your tail.
You used to burn so bright.
That dream is diminishing.
You listen to the devils in your ear. They tell you what you want to hear.
Here comes an opportunity. Can’t you see, this is all I need?
It all comes undone. Unbutton that tongue, and be my truth tonight.
These words begin to carry me away, you never did ask me to stay.
Tiny towers compare to you, as my eyes set on mountains that command.
What dream did you want to destroy today?
I see it in your eyes, as I put on my armour and prepare for the next wave.
Your Joan of Arc, your Jesus Christ. Your Martin Luther, your holy ghost?
You never listen carefully, distrusting my reptilian blood. Count the crazy.
So I let you sleep. Laying you down on the battlefield, your martyred pose. Your own stations of the cross. You seem happy.
I finally found a way to make you smile.