Friday, June 24, 2011

How The Statue Became A Poet

A poet

is immovable;
hands fused across the chest,
lips undeterred by funeral,
chin down, the eyes cast
forward into time.

For time is the only thing
that counts.

But a statue breaks, real or fake.
A statue carries itself
as though weighed down
by its plaster-cast feet.
It cannot see.
It cannot feel.

For a statue is given
neither eyes nor a heart.

The poet will not allow it.

Wednesday, June 8, 2011


What was it you said? You said
something about not knowing
what it meant, and then you
wiped it away, with a tissue.
The tissue that you balled
in your fist that last time we met.
Even when I looked away, I still
saw your face. Bright it was
that day. You were sweating.
I was sweating. Maybe I should've
asked to clarify. But the balled-up
tissue in your fist distracted me.

Poor tissue, poor tissue,
how could a fragile thing like you

protect me?

Saturday, March 5, 2011

What I Want

What I want, after all, isn't what I want from you.
I had pretended. Like a broken-winged bird.
Take it from someone with nothing better to do:
I only wanted a look-in, a signal, a tiny dirty word.

So: I'm sorry. I acted like a turd.
You've got your daunting secrets. And I knew.
It's what some people call: being absurd.
But what do they know about being blue?

When you remained silently and perfectly poised
on your beloved island, I tried my best to be rotten.
To lure you back with my bacon of a voice.
I don't blame you for trying not to listen.

In the end, my wanting became a prison.
Karma negated me and pointed to my only choice.
Believe me, it wasn't the world's easiest decision
but I made it. I bought the pain, my Rolls Royce.

In my elegant horsepowered sorrow I found
that all I really ever wanted from you was
divine worship, eternal bondage, bejewelled crown.
I wanted so much I forgot how far my head went up my arse.

So: now: in the aftermath of the farce,
I'm willing to go along, I force me to go down
to the simplest of interaction, only just because
that's the simple truth of it, god help me I'm a clown.

Because: what I want is not what I want.
What I want only you would know.
Only you would understand how it haunts
me so, only you could destroy my ego

and return it, as a gift, a soft silken pillow,
upon which you so gently taunt
me to believe in love once more. How can I let go?
When it's you: who I love. You: who I want.