Below is a smattering of some of the general musings I have come up with over the years. Dylan Thomas I am not, but that’s not why we do it.
What is this malformed destiny?
A spectre glares above your audacious heart.
Know you not your place,
Dancing between the strings,
From which the godlike puppets masquerade.
Death I say is immortal furies cure
From which there is no free sufferance
Nor delightful dalliance of which you may tire.
Will not the stars themselves alight
That black carriage to the timeless place
From which only the dead light of winter may glimpse.
Amidst the startling chaos
Of a most visible sundering of the heavens
‘Whose long lived writ
Was wrought in inky starlight
Long before your blood was hot or cold’
You wish and bathe
In the mournful light of long dead stars.
You would be so brazen
As to conjure your own magic?
And that spell, that man-made fabric of the heart,
Is the cure to every divine malady.
Love is god and grace
And the link that forms the trinity of our hearts.
For love be humanities transcendental fusion
United forever beyond the caged heart and the firmament of our passion.
Bury me, bury me with love alone
And I will know a heaven of my own making.
I am nothing but this,
A form spun from the singularity of my love
And to this blind soul
I shall retreat in death.
Rum and Gin and Maud-d-Lin
There are places up there.
Far from the heat of any star.
Clouds of unknown quanta, raining uncertainty down onto far off mortal minds.
The past is there,
Where the winters dark is so cold,
As to cause an echo of our time.
As with the rest of creation,
It flies ever further away from us,
Into a future we shall never know again.
Green eyed wonder
Is split by the darkling prism
Of every stout looking glass.
And beyond the parable, shimmers night,
Dark beyond truth.
Yet still sparkling, in the lie of possibility.
And even if time is but a gaudy veil
Floating over the standing still
Of heavens indecision,
I am proud of frozen limbs, and frozen lips
And the jealousy to which I aspire.
For is man not a beast made marvel?
And are not all such miracles marvellous,
By the deception of the shadowy dawn.
A gentle soul
A distant sound
White lights mingle
Darkness laps the shore
Moonlight reveals the cracks.
This is the night
Hope silence and prayer
Streetlight pure and fair.
Our meeting place
Flicker and falter
Sorrow be not
Sorrow is the spider,
light footed in the night.
The shining eye that passes by,
leaving the memory of a fright.
Sorrow does not shock but creeps,
In foundations and the soulful deeps.
Sorrow is the ferryman’s oar
As it turns the Styx towards the shore.
There is no sweetness here but life,
For sorrow is sunlight, bright and rife.
Sorrow is the wolf that howls
Longing into the dark,
Sorrow was our scratching claws
Which we raked upon the bark.
Sorrow knows no bounds but these
Whistlings beneath the winter trees,
The still cold air through which we stare
At every birth the Summer sees.
I feel it ill to cast such shade
Over the promise of the morrow,
With all this talk of weakling roots
Which draw upon the sorrow.
So I say this to all life’s dreamers,
On whose visions
May no saint or sinner tread.
Leave my words on the pages writ,
And leave the sorrow to the dead.
Red titans in the morning
Wait to weep
Stern and silent
Carved up by the heat.
And seven billion muses
Fleets of dreams.
The thoughts of the universe
Hang in the frozen sky.
This infinite sky
This unnamed ocean.
All our days
In cloud formations
Tattooed into the fabric of the world
Eroding away with tidal forces
At the coastline of my dearest islands.
I mourn not
That I must become one with the water which wastes me,
Only that we will be parted
Drowned on different days.
I should likely go first
And become a small part
Of the universe which pulls you down.
I will wait for you there
In the trenches of our love
Clinging to the oft remembered reefs
Swirling madly, endlessly,
Through the maelstrom of our union soul.
Look for me in the dark water
The cool water, the blue water.
Look for me in time,
I might crack the china black
Should I lean on the jet shine clean
Of your porcelain nightscape.
That riveted sun
Has faded from sight
But it’s shards
Linger like shining fingers
On the forging of your
You might say that rusting red
Was in the mix
When poured and splashed
Against your milk day moon
From which the night pours like a lagoon
And when all the shattering
Peeled and cracked
Like steam rolled thunder
Shall all the shaken pieces
That on cloth are silky creases
Be laid bare before
The poets scissors
And starry threads where are
For all was golden
Beneath the hidden rooftops
On our night of porcelain.
Life is an assault on heaven.
If you make it over the wall then let me know,
Fly our flag.
Open the gates for me,
When I fall from the ladder.
When I falter, sound the charge.
Drag me in, through mortal sin.
For I would be a prisoner of angels,
Than free upon the Earth,
To ruin myself
And fall further still.
All heaven needed do was invade my mind,
To conquer my soul soon after.
For if I can imagine paradise then what must it think of me?
Not the heaven of crosses or crescents.
Nor the afterlife of too many tears.
No, this is the heaven of dreams,
That last fantasy,
Which lasts forever beyond the breath of death.
The entropy of fate
even in the darkness
There was some cyclonic light
spinning in the depths of the pondering mind.
That bleak matter
doth lie at the heart
of those who contemplate its make
and some dark energy
from which the strings are made
shakes like a universe of violins
which shriek in harmony of the creation’s destiny
And though you may be a ghost
long before the sound washes over
you will listen anyway
for the echoes might entertain
long before the note is played.
Such is the chaos of our order
that might come early the dawn
before our sunset late.
And the heat will burn
like the invisible fire
of the entropy of fate.
This arrow in time you follow
points not forward but up from down below
beneath the past it lingers blind
out beyond the falling snow.
Save some songs for the morning
I would save some songs for the morning
Night it seems
Is the maker of its own kind of music
Which screeches like chalk diamonds
Across the belly of an angel
Which creaks like heaven’s gate
Opening but a finger’s breadth
And sighs like the space faring sea
Devoid of taunting trenches
In which to pour its misery.
By the gaze
Of your wanton sun.
Printed on the gulleys and moons
Was a recipe of spring.
Echoing in the catacombs
Of the empty world ye burned
Was the laughter
Of a child unborn.
Pour your scorn on that
You dark star apparition
For an echo and a memory
Trumps eternally the never ever.
Lunar Maria, Lunar Maria
I sit here in your dust,
In your hide I spied a thousand times
The dreams that turned to rust.
Although I could have chosen
A different heaven sent,
To you I fled my doomsday hour
When my earthly will was spent.
For there can be no better dwelling
To hear the silence of the night,
Than the lunar land of quiet telling
Where the darkness meets the light.
Lunar Maria, Lunar Maria
In your dust I revel gladly,
For silver soil knows the spinners toil
And thus I plant my tale sadly.
For without the woe I came to know
We’d surely have never met,
And now my smile is silver snow
As my tears are dusty wet.
I wandered across the frozen emerald sea, betwixt the shadows of those old timber ships. They had not moved in a century, save to the sway of the endless tide of time. She does not freeze, my lady of the hourglass. She watches, and we all decay under her gaze, even the ice, and the timber ships and the shadows that they bleed.
The moon is an awkward guest
It stands solemnly
With nowhere else to go
And nothing of silence to say.
It shuffles around the room
And though it will eventually
Slope out the dawning door
It is present a while yet.
Present and silent as we forget
And though it will say nothing
To any other soul
In heaven or by earthly reflection
It will speak to us of ourselves
And all we did beneath its light.
You will find in solitude
The world may be its loudest.
For there the voice speaks
And in silence
You are choiceless
But to be subjected
To the wisdom of your desire
And the sound
Of the breaking
Of your own soul.
Seek them out, fellow travellers
On times road.
For without their damned murmur
You will register the frequency
Of your own destruction
And the echo of the end of days.
It walks backwards along the pendulum to greet you.
You can never stop his footsteps
Only slow them down
Lose their echo
In the shadow of a fellow traveller.
And the formation of our bloodline
What joy has life to offer?
What pinpricks of light shall we see
Before the blanket of darkness?
Here’s maudlin me, and my questions.
Years later than before
I break off no saddened pleasure
From this soul born rock
With which I am impaled
And weighed down.
Truly be my body a fire that burns,
And the soul consumed
Was not a measure of how long it furied,
But by how brightly it lit the skies.
Red reels and the winter pilgrim
We languish in our saloon lagoon
Behind us the tonic fountain flows
Gin rocks splash confusion in our eyes
And cause ripples of illogical dissent
Ever masters after dark
We talk of the forgotten
Even as their memories fade.
We talk of the pilgrim winter
The stern season we will never know again.
The brandy in my pocket
Holds a bleak promise
In it’s swirling brown eyes.
We roll into the night
With a fate that spinning seals
Three red eyes look back at us
red reels, red reels, red reels….