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.