pain

I do not normally write outside of the office. The work environment and narrow time frame seems to suit me better. However with my birthday approaching I thought I would dig the demon, which this year is different from all the previous years.

There is an irony to life, sometimes to appreciate it you nearly need to destroy it, loose it, burn it down and rebuild it.

If my mother gave me nothing else positive it was infinte will, strength and defiance. Life is hard. I'm a dam sight harder.

Twenty Ninth Funeral

Abortion in a bag
taken home
neglected in the look of
selfish windows
skin peeled turned to
flayed tomatoes
in an overdue nappy.
A womb of abandonment
makes no mother
leaves the scars of
Pathos' blade down the arms,
perched on the shoulder blades
sliced down to the bone.
Lazarus defiant
claws against
Mother's shovel
turns a funeral
to a birthday.

Not in the best of moods at the moment, which partly explains the below.


Pestle And Mortar

Pestle upon bone
pokes and grinds
like a bully’s prod.

In musical chorus
Old hinges crack
backed by moan,

a groan to usher in pain
who cannot behave
at the rear of the room

only preach and piss
old age’s impending
doom.

A quick doodle.

The Shroud

Soft as moonlight in lover’s eyes
the shroud takes our misplaced hand.

Deceptive as Judas the cloth descends
snuffs out shadows and sound

Kills the talkative tongue.

"It is easier to destroy your life than make it".

Sometimes it feels though despite moving onwards, there is still something which lurks waiting to destroy you if you let it.

The Third Hand

One in the shadow
Two in the light with
shovels or saws,
scattered seeds and handshakes.
Two in the light
One in the shadow
with a barrel of a gun
in an anvil fist.

I remember as a kid, we had a coal fire, a proper coal fire. When the fire had burnt out there was a tray of ash to be disposed of. Sitting here this lunch time, I remembered a few times running a finger through the cold ash; the texture and colour. It seemed as good as place as anywhere to start a poem.

Ash

Grey chalk piled like dejected sand
Owes nothing, says nothing.
Fine as a thread of colour in the iris
the ash body smothers,
congeals sweat and blood into a
dark tar paste.
Spread by black stubs
in the eyes of our Lovers.
Our own burning bones
are the pyre of unsettled memorial.

I had half an hour to write something, having written nothing yesterday. I sat for a moment then thought of sand. As a kid I spent a lot of time on holiday in Wales, running through sand dunes as well as up the steepest ones I could find. Then memories of walking along the beach came to mind, when the sea has left the sand moist and patterned with the tide.

This is where the following poem came from as well as an interpretation of sand.