Bury Me With My Dreams

bury me with my dreams,
old they may be, fatigued parchment
of a prayer book held too long,
held too tight,
what good will they be to you anyway,
incongruent with the living,
shroud them gently, each one,
this from the night we climbed to the clouds
on wires of lightheaded rain,
and that when the moon was complaining,
chiffon wave ears scattered on the sand;

I need their irresolvable yearning
in my hands when I leave,
their folly of attachment, of want,
their songs of erratic discord,
their roots are where our roots are,
deep in the earth,
in the echo of the ocean,
where every difference, every distance
folds into sublime equations,
why we fall out of love,
why we want to unwant by starlight,
why the improbable never pales its call;

it is the eccentric wind here, unhinged,
with its scent that stirs time,
shifting the balance, recalculating dreams,
bury me where the answers are,
with dreams that danced like mendicants in rapture,
that sighed like decadent harlots,
dreams that were spawned by awkward anticipation,
dreams searching for the lost variable,
dreams undreaming the end,
bury me where I can untangle them
hope by stubborn hope before they die.

Not in Water

but I cannot swim
not in water
not in anything viscous
so all this spluttering, drowning, almost dying
rescued by the iron grasp of my own fears
leaves possibility always stranded a wet impossibility away
consider the absurd discontent of flailing and kicking
when I can teach myself to walk
jettisoning the weight of all desire
the dead weight of one desire
sure footed as air
but what purpose would that crossing serve
when I can go down breathless
a magnificent shipwreck of passion
but what purpose would that sinking serve
I cannot swim
not in water

Two Hearted Ash

I want to write about the streaming sun
that gives way to diamond tipped
kite strings,
about skies with moon shaped clouds
and cloud shaped moons,
about things that make you wistful,
about things that make you smile,
but this night,
oh, but this night,
see the soot from his fingers crawl up my arms,
a Janus with two mouths,
one pollinating the stars,
one conjuring murky storms,
I would make place for you
under this blanket of darkness
where hip and limb and temptation
commingle in the molten black
and whisper to you of old improbabilities
until dawn burns the words on my lips,
but you ask about the mountains
about love and tomorrow,
tell me how you can separate
one from the other in this inky void,
a moment, a petal, a fragrance
everything flutters in one breath of this night
you talk about things that make you shine,
every shade from lantern glow to incandescence,
but the empty page is the colour of my tongue,
I am two hearted ash from this stygian flame,
one pleading for your light,
one drowning you in the pitch.

Driving Home

we saw him in the bowels of the side street,
as we pulled up for a traffic light,
it was him, surely, we were around his table
just the other evening, his wife in those big peridot earrings
and coiffured hair serving faloodas, smiling,
now this strange woman with the painted face,
loud under the yellow lamps,
his money in her still slick hands,
in a hurry to leave him,
he, uncertain, in a hurry to leave himself,
dropping his sordidness like crumpled pants
beside the bed of cracked asphalt;

I saw your quick glance but you weren’t looking at me,
perhaps at the beige seat belt
that held me tightly in place,
held you tightly in place,
the metal box on wheels that elevated us somehow,
he was gone by then, the place they left
swallowed up by the forgiving night,
we drove home quickly,
the silence brushing against our thighs,
your eyes on the road,
my eyes on your hands that gripped the wheel,
tighter, still slick,
the unsaid like a familiar ghost
in the back seat.

Linking to Poets United.
Connect on instagram: @tp_poetry

Perfect Forbidden

not this one where apples are born with
bite marks on their fractured skin,
where the earth spits venom in the eye
of the unsuspecting hoe,
what have you done to my other world,
isn’t it the nature of all force
to find a new path when hope lies shattered
like broken mirrors on the ground,

unless of course someone is winning this distortion,
unless you are winning,
unless the game has changed;
what do I know,
there again the brusque palm of song
slaps my hand away
as it reaches for half eaten fruit;
what do I know,
competing with homeless dreams for
a lick of sugary emptiness;

give me back that other world,
the one in which angry roses do not play
roulette with the shackled wind,
the one in which the forbidden was
still perfect, sitting high on a tree,
it’s honeyed ears
listening to my poems.

The apple inspiration came from here.