For you

Writing words
as if they could touch you.
As if a sentence
were my arm outstretched,
my words – my fingers –
go through your hair.
A Full stop – a kiss,
a comma – a breath
that we breathed together.
This could not exist
within me
without you.
The twisted silver lining
of the aching heart is this –
after all of this
I still have my words;
you are still my meaning.

Us, in significance

I see your brain as this galaxy,
he said to me.
Beautiful, complex,
I’ll never understand it.

I hear my alarm before it goes off
the sun hasn’t come up,
it’ll go down before I’m home.
It doesn’t revolve around you or me.

I’m no galaxy, no saviour.
I’m a wanderer like the rest.
My eyes are still red
from this morning and the next.

You’re pretentious, they said,
but I’m not pretending.
I know that I’m not
a galaxy or some king.

I’m a kid of postmodernism
whatever that means,
but so are you,
not that we had a choice.

Dancing in circles,
like everyone else.
So maybe we’re all galaxy together,
bunch of old star dust

and we haven’t stopped swirling
motes of dust, moving.
Stagnant we’ll lay
and we’ll suffocate.

But we don’t know where to go,
from here, let’s go
and keep the pendulum swinging
between Cézanne and Warhol.

It’s all the same to us,
because those posters hang
in the dentist’s office
on a screech-drill backdrop.

Move [in]significance, [in]difference,
choice maybe beautiful, complex,
maybe you’re the galaxy,
we’re the ones we don’t understand.

Mining inspiration on city streets.

Sucking, ring-mouthed, on exhaust-pipes of inspiration
exhausted I pick-axe my way through soot and darkness
that chokes me up and sits in subconscious corners
cobwebbed clinging on my waking walking
through streets and observations of people
and things to find anything worthy of ink and page.
No rough diamonds or polishing those rough rides
on nights when all it took was a drink and to be taken home
before the morning light could cast judgement on me.
There’s no ore in the veins of jazz and cigarettes,
smokey rooms clinging to skin and sucking you
into their smells and ear-ringing. Wringing your ringless fingers.
Its romanticism Is better left for films
No inspiration to be had sucking on pipes and dreams
and stale cigarette smells
and running from morning light
and forgetting it all
In an afternoon wake-up beside bedside aspirin
and pushed away under the sheets
and washed with your jeans that are worn on the knees
and wear crumpled bar receipts mocking from empty pockets.
Yet here they are, those nights, those receipts,
All laid out, laid again,
In little lines and sighs of charcoal-dark smudges of ink
inspiration on your hands and pages.