Lying Fallow

I lie, pale brown
with a morning frost

encrusting me,
a fallow field

of everyday earth,
recovering

from the multiple births of this hard won year.

The visible skin
nobbly, hard
has a still, wintry mist kissing.

Underneath, in my softer soil
worms thread and ravel
readying me for new creations.

and deep, down deep
underneath it all
an unknown core blazes whitely.

Mother Wolf I

She awoke in me.
Mother Wolf
with her wise eyes.

Her familiar pelt
grew within me
as I fed,

until I became her, animalised,
suckling cubs
of compassion and understanding.

This morning
I am not alone,

writing

embraced by the communal howl.

Precision’s Fog

For some,

words, mere paint,
plastic on the tongue,
primarily a disguise.

For others,

sound filler:
a means of transport from now to now.

For me, though,

words are molecules,
crossing the semi-permeable membranes of our souls.
Meaning seeps, and becomes us.

I think of
the first word.

The meaningful sound.

It’s utterance
landing
as a black hole.

The weight of understanding
Infinite.

Imploding,
all we thought we instinctively knew.

Plummeting,
as language creates a past.

A reading of “Septembering”

Dusk devours chroma
at the Septembering of a day,
when rooms succumb to the miasma
of a rumbling, hungered night-coming,
and darkness’ dust scrapes
lazy, late afternoon hues
on blued-evening white doors,
and walls lilacness commences the crawl
to dulled corners charcoaled bolder
in advancing hours.
The twilight resigns, fading
to the democracy of the dark;
but us, tip-toeing to infinity
with the logical line of endless words,
in slipping sleepwise we fall,
and saturate grey sleep
with stark contrasted dreams,
our spectral artistry emblazoned
in glinting needles of clarity
cushioned in the nebulous clutch
of our every unknown.
Flickering eyes, in mimicry
of the unseeing creativity
of one wide awake
who, in the pitch of midnight,
creates a pageant from starless sky.

Home Space

The fragility of the nest
is
the security of the nest.

We hanker for a home.

Not
the solidity,
the false security
of the sarcophagus.

A home to leave and return to.
To remain a home
when the wind blows it away.

Not
the permanence of the coffin.
Unleft and unimagined.
No holes to breathe through.

Bookworm

I find you bookish.
No, that’s a compliment.

With pages of skin
loose,
inelastic,
windblown;
using old words,
elsewhere dying
from disuse.

Your conversation perfumed by yellowed pages.
other eyes hold you pallid.
Mistake dryness
for dust.

You fall into my hands
flop over
as I turn you.

Pulsing.

I read you Crimson.

My Dark Works

Night’s nothing,

which I walk into the upstairs of
with candles of despair.

The whiling of these spaces
illumines me
in a cosy blanket of black.

My pen hooks and pulls
a little diamond word out.

Come morning,
my sky is peppered with stars.

Darkness Visible

Now that we have
pathologised Despair,
medicalised grief,

and compartmentalised
the edges of normal
to insanity’s domain,

and unpicked agonies,
textures and hues
with easy substitutes
of platitudes and pills.

Can we finally acknowledge
our unwritten goal?

To deprive the poor few
of a fearful descent
to the core, where
a glowing roar erupts.