Thursday, 12 March 2009

Two poems

This is our home

this is our home.
gentle whiteness and pouring violets
enfolding, gently
into streams of yellow pear
wardrobes and cushions,
made from the ears of old birthday cards.
this is our home.
crescent folding arms,
caress the ears of the tea stained elderly,
who sit and revel on bathroom mats
of dark moisture and cigarettes.
this is our home.
lemon eyed bannisters and kitchen eyes,
whistle strange outdoor sounds,
as apples grow from each branch of the trees in the garden
and fall to the floor.
this is our home.
turqoise staircases withdraw their tongues,
and sterile heaven ducks,
cascade orange glass noise,
across the brick mountains of the garage.
this is our home.
a hymn. a beautiful seat.
a flower made from apple metal.
this is our home.

Anxiety depart light arrive

Often i can hear the sound of lizard quilted terrains and folding paper hands,
pitter patter upon my tense aching shoulders;
misted breaths of milk and anger, clammering
prodding my lungs and neck and back.
Daggering my head with a nihilistic confusion
of dreams of thoughts. my over baked over thinking head.
A glimmer of the moment. of sitting here now in this.
To resist the pull of the future and thats and ifs and possibles
is all i want. my real baked dream.
To shove all this 'other' aside,
and sit and read and rest content. simple joy. old and new.
of saturday mornings in bed with my girl
of evenings immersed in a story or film
of walks with my fictional turtle.
this is all i want.
not this tense stress anxious fingers of foals and bear voices
not the loss of the wind in my eyes
not a hand on my body jeering in a constant yellow thunder.

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