So Long The Ceasefire

My head is a bread bin
Without any bread,
Where loaves were stored
Mould’s sprawling instead.

My body a trawler
With no herring for kippers;
Caught by a storm,
Overboard skippers,
Returning to port
With no smoke for a dinner.

My soul a cathedral
Burned for a cause,
So long the ceasefire,
Bombs did not pause.

Finally, my mind has vacated,
My body, and my will;
Standing at a bus stop crying,
Placated by the thrill.

Interstate / Intestate

Is my soul conceptual?
Is my soul pre-occupied,
If my soul exists at all?
Like foetus feelings in a womb
I heard her moving
To a tune, or maybe
I can explain this all
As simply a rumour or two.

Midnight driving,
Interstate,
All the lights askew.

Dear soul, if I neglected
You, I will provide my
Penance, armistice
From parlances of daily
Dues, and I am certainly
In deficits accrued.
Next time around,
I hope that there is one
True guide to growing,
Nurturing and
Preserving you.

Meanwhile, intestate,
I remain convinced that
Souls of Popes
Are one same great weight
As souls within
Our populous deprived,
The homeless and
The destitute.

But for now, dear soul,
There’s nothing more
I’d say from my deep
Emptiness and sorrow,
No, nothing more
That I could do.

Topaz

Underneath two ribs
Of a lunar-like mountain
You exist.

Underneath incipient
Residual intent they buried
With ritual laments,

With your future there
Scattered, Time’s amulets
Mattered, these grimly

Iridescent moments
Stuck in weathered endgame
Frames of dunes and rocks,

Like emerald in oil,
Like a child when locked
Within the habitual dragon’s eye,

Though you cannot burst through
To our labours of today,
However much we may wish

And no matter how much
We think about this,
There, you exist.

I travel to that mountain,
Dull-brown slopes
Smooth and exposed

By denial, or worse,
Colluding through
The exclusion of truth,

The Athabaskan sun.
In my mind sometimes,
Touching barren surfaces,

The inner host’s recipient,
Tomb of an empty womb
Imprinted in my thumb.

Amethyst gates to a park
Stay resolute and fast,
By hematite chains, padlocks

And the timings of hearts,
Some are beating here still,
And some we can’t restart.

Autumn Market

No season’s quite like Autumn,
Foliage on the ground;
History is a spiral,
The falling leaves I found.

Socrates travelled to market,
Agoras in Autumn were full;
So many things I do not need,
Our one conditional thought.

To wintry comforts precursive,
Gates to snow and frost,
We could not see the arbours
Without ever feeling a cost.

They brewed a hemlock soup,
He drank eternal drops,
Delivered me his empty bowl
To place among my props.

Keep at bay my Summer,
She tells me I’m alive,
I’ll keep the Autumns burning
And maybe then survive.

Dig A Hole

My barren mind will oftentimes
Grasp for levelled words,
Its fallow field’s infertile,
Dreams dissolved to dirt.

I’d try to shake myself awake
Like thorns within a curse;
Letters in life’s word-game rattle,
A rib-cage emptied verbs.

Unpaid workers dug a hole,
They formed a pile of earth;
They bound me to a bloodied pole
Not far from my place of birth.

I did not even question how
These trap doors are not doors;
A lever, flattened oak-wood opened,
As out my soul then poured.