she said i love you and i said
i love you
and the i love you flowed thick
and fast between
the two of us
the always-saying of the i
love you becomes a thing –
a habit or a tic
i will not say i
love you i will not say i love
you i will say something new:
(sitting on the sofa, watching tv)
your (i) presence makes me (love) feel safe (you)
(when i cried and she held me and
let me cry) you are (my love) my comforter (you)
(i leave for work)
i hope you (i) will always (love you) be here
when i say i love you, i don’t know what i mean.
i don’t know who love is, or where she lives.
i change every day, and am renewed
but our love is a constant
because it is made of a thousand little
i love you
At the centre of life
there is a
which is called death.
Death is the arrow.
Infectious at times
feeding on the living.
Death is also the
stomping us breath
less we re alise that alive
is worth s o v e r y much.
death is unbecoming
made, we can only-pray that
the works worked here-and-now
can ripple-out and
fill the empty-sky.
There’s a blackness on the edge of down
by the clawcrowfeather lies
a single waiting figure
statuelike – armless in the
moonlight like fire in the
halflight and stars gazing on the edge of down.
On the edge of down, is a boy
licking the honey in spite of the dragon
and walking a stick carved with affection.
Edging down on the edge of down
one finds a strange kind of beast
fickle and fallow and fear
The god-silence is deaf
and in my face is blind
and my mouth in numb
loss is my mother
and fatherless for
the edge of down is a bleakness
brok’ness and faithless men
ask for favours of me
but my hands are caught in the
edges of down
and my eyes are strung out
to the crows the spoils
and the victor must live here
on the edge of down.
plete covered in n o i s y gestures
( like hands shot into the air
in a fervour a fall to my knees )
and also the silly-grumbling of
unhappy men, on a sunny day with
they suddenly realise that it has been
t o o l o n g and smiles
don’t come naturally anymore
(and they try it anyway, and it looks
funny, outofplace. still beautiful still)
That is the foundation of my church.
It is a place where the angles look like Snoopy,
the Ninja Turtles, and the Tin Man, and Satan is
just a cowardly wizard behind a silk curtain
who turned out to be you all along
suddenly the rabbits all dig rabbit holes
when you close your eyes they become
C R A T E R S O N T H E F A C E O F T H E M O O N
the moon looks like its grinning wide.
My church has 20 sides and all sides point in
you hold all
your littlest hopes
that never caught the sun and all the sudden
they become treetops of hopes-real-ised
complete with golden sunsets and
crazy monkeys playing wild bongos
and an A L T A R in the centre.
!! What an altar is in my church !!
All golden and Shiva
and g e m e n c r u s t e d and Allah and
picked out in silver and Jesus and
the incense that smells of roses and
the tears of the saints and martyrs.
And I would never go to my church at all,
because it is pointless, and anyway, I
worship my own feet and hands and your hands and feet
and I’ve never really been one for architecture.
i take my pain
like an alchemist
my wordless choke
my dark ne s sun derthehouse
like an alche mist
i take the lead enheart
& the pouring ink
to pay the ferryman
crossing the styx to
costs only a memory
when we kissing i feel all the me that i ever am welled up in my throats, spilt over my jawline
and all the me that can never been pulled back my hair and screamings: you were more now than i expected
who knew that you was a part of my me who knew that you could tell me something about a me that was notknown until you
i must have known something when i met you that first day when you were young and i didn’t even notice and still somehow convincing you to stay.
she spins in moonlight,
in and out of moonbeams,
some madly-grinned whirlwind,
she spins faster.
the crux of everything.
somehow, the crucible.
while she turns,
halo her head.
stars fall to the earth.
onthefloor, a s k e w:
an after-show marionette,
st. elmo in her eyes.
and I wondered what direction the earth spins
and what orbit the planets follow
and which way the sun turns.
she was probably the nexus,
somehow the orbit of humankind
around the pull of nothingness
and hot the heat of living
poohsticks and autumn leaves
and you float away into
the years that have gone by
between you me and
w h e n w e w e r e o n e
meet me by the falldown tree
out past the clearing,
Fall asleep in the westwoods
in the circle of fungus
where nothing will grow.
I’ll be your owl, turn my head around,
lead you down into the burrow,
open you up.
be my blueberry.
My very own forgetmenot.