Withering

I woke within sounds appalling,
Crow caws on my pillow mourning;
Rolling over, window-way,
Found jackdaw claws on the other;
Jaundiced wallpaper,
Sunlight slithers,
Only believing such dust
From their claws are withered.

Sell my books, sell the lot,
Donate my bones to charity shops;
Do one thing well, no polyglots,
Place my plea in a local plot;
Gasoline dreams, gardenia rot,
I woke in a dream I then forgot.

A Dose Of Gothic, Part 2

I looked at my pillow,
My pillow turned red;
I called a physician,
He said it’s your stress.
Your pillow was white
As a ghost in a bed,
If I’m not mistaken
Your ghost has since bled.
The ghost of your sanity,
Do not be misled,
She called out profanities
When shot on the bedspread;
Then the ghost of your pride
Who ate her own legs,
And the incumbent bride
Without any flesh
Or corporeal content
On shoulders so slender
Bereft of her head;
Is it no wonder
Your pillow is red.

I gripped the night-doctor,
Foreboding fuelled dread;
I shook him for sense
As he cut off the phone line,
My voice and mouth wed.
I washed the case for a week and a day;
The more I washed, the redder betrayed
Like a Sun on Blood Moon or
Bald eagle days, I lost myself
To a dark disarray. They found me,
The officers, odd notebooks in hand,
With the doctor beside me,
His gunsmoke criss-crossing
This smouldering land,
My blood turned to white,
My last soul unmanned.

Ode To Our Bed

You have your side’s tidyness,
My side’s still its usual mess.
If we swapped, I’d take time

To trace those crests and hollows
Where your resting shape resides,
Refill your empty cup of sorrows,

Folded clothes conformed
To your uncontested beauty,
Ready to be stored in drawers

Like confessions in a chapel,
Like reforming resurrections,
Routines diminish duty.

Middle night and middle storm,
I reached for where your milk was stored,
But darkly your side metamorphed

Before I realised, and with great design
The bed of life revolved once more,
Mechanics wheezed while agents yawned.

Now I’m trapped where blankets lied,
Transfixed by how I lived and died;
You wake, shower, prepare for work.

Step Across

Your room
Perfectly preserved,
Just the way you
Last observed it;
Same duvet cover,
Same sash.
Your favourite band
In a poster, yellowed
By the years, an empty
Glass on a bedside table,
An undisturbed pack
Of fears.
Sometimes I draw open
White chiffon curtains
But it’s still too bright,
Even this far removed,
Our eyes adapt
To darkness, as if
All of time
Is night.

A bookmark,
An elastoplastic strip,
Outside your window
A satellite dish.
We were such materials
In the continuity
Of loss. Sometimes
I wished and convinced
Myself that you would
Step across that threshold,
I’d hold you, the hug
To end all that could
Have been better defined,
But some things are not real,
And some are only crimes.