She: she I see; woman standing in a sunset.
As she stands, I am enamoured.
As enamoured as she is glamoured.
Lines of divides of spiderwebs; her hair
framing her picture in a stop-still
fraction of time.
Warm electric fires of blue are her sunset mascara.
Lips so blue
Eyes so blue
Egg stained, passions written and marked.
Where will she go?
Where will you go from here?
Captured.
She: she I see
Mirrored by my attentions,
Lost and jailed by my affections;
Alone.
Hair midnighted, hair darkened:
Fading into blue.

Why is not
the stone of Scotland:

a pillar of Mull basalt
a weathered board of gneiss
the pink of Nevis granite
or crumbled muds of Fife
red vivid Angus heartstone
or whitened Atholl quartz?

Orange Merseland richloam
a lump of Lanark coal,
precious Lowther goldstone
black polished, Reekie’s soul,
or silver-speckled slab hewn
from Cairngorm or Aberdeen?

A Caithness plate of split slate
grey as the eyes of seamen
a rough thrust of Skye gabbro
where torn skin made a free man
the fossil-beach of Jura -
or weathered Orkney sandstone?

Of all these I will sing.

But in the castle’s stone room
can we really hear
the keening stone of Scotland?
This trapped stone pathetic
does it really fool us
and do we even care?

For boys of destiny
still play under Argyll skies -
freedom is a noble thing.
I found myself some bedrock
and - like any braw young chancer -
have proclaimed myself a king.

Jessie is two, she’s scared of me –
my hands to her are ursine paws,
my beard is tangled foliage
wrapped around a stony jaw
and when I smile at her my teeth
seem sharp, my eyes are dark, I try
to offer her my paw. She cries.

This reminds me of a programme
I saw, about circus-people.
One had a bulbous foot-long nose,
one had strange bubbles on his skin,
but the one who the children were
really scared of had claws for hands.
He said to the kids, “I don’t bite”

but still they wouldn’t go near.
Jessie is two, I’m five-foot-ten,
looming over her, a bumbling hulk.
I see her eyes wide open with fear
as I wait for the door to chime
and the ringleader to take me away.

Let us tear the harvest moon in half,
raise our hands and grasp its sharp
edge between thumb and forefinger
whilst it still hangs
fat, and orange as copper,
above the sea.

Let us break it like an old penny
and keep each a half,
stopping this night in mid tick,
where the warm shingle beneath our blanket
shares the memory of the day with us,
and let us be fooled and promise
that one day,
when the blackberries are heavy
we will come here again.

Our pigeon visits us daily in our hushed Paradise
He has a tail like a vampires teeth,
A morbid sash of wispy feathers;
Fanned out as he flickers away,
Momentarily distracted from our childsplay.

On returning he whispers something into my ear.
A message from,
A lost love,
Perhaps,
Or a dead relative come to say farewell.
What’s the difference?

Once, as summer showers began to threaten,
He even nibbled your finger.
A token of thanks for the amusement of it all.
He had forgotten,
You see, that
We were of a different kind.

Of his tail my headdress is made.
A blinding shroud, a decorated deafness.
I love him but I did not know.
I asked you to catch him
For me, my love, fluttering in the cage that was your clasped hands.
Your nails on my neck and your breath fanning his frantic feathers across my ear,
Like threads of hair, cobwebs drifting.

On being released
Flustered, he ruffled his quills once or maybe twice
And continued to peck at the shiny thing
That he could not name
But that looked like a cat’s
Yellow
Eye.

We go for each other, the final task
Union always preceding disintegration

Hands slide over hips; and thighs
As I draw you closer, deeper into me
Thick between my toes and heavy against my breasts
I fall wholeheartedly into the feast
Caked in a lifetimes worth of sleek slippery mud, the fusion of our elements,
Twin, bear thy nature, monster from the deep
Penetrating each crevice, bathed in my reciprocation

Soaked and heaving with the effort of disentanglement
I lift my limbs and my crustation of a body from upon yours
Slipping and sliding now, running to the lands of liquid
The tides had anticipated us
Knowing from what deeds we came
it mixed and frothed its depths into a curtain of clouds
A veil awaiting to envelop us and wash one of us away.

I returned to my brothers and sisters
Glistening and snorting they came for me
I clawed and rubbed myself free from your body of dust
Thickly matted hair released itself and reaching out and spreading
Became the silky silver fur of a seal rolling in the spray
I disappeared into my world once more, all tail and flirting whiskers
Eyes of ebony with a melancholy cry I bid her goodbye

She stepped from the waters, shining and pristine
Glad to be rid of me and I of her

All I left was a faint smell of the muddy marshes and salt tides.

I can feel Time flowing by
without touching,
water flowing around a bubble.
The clouds trundle overhead,
their shadows ticking over me.
Even the sunlight seems to be slower.

Bees drone lazily in the young clover,
roaring by my head as they
inspect my ears for nectar.
Grass tickles the nape of my neck,
and something spiky crawls over my hand �
I try not to think what. I try not to think at all.

I surface hearing a steady crescendo
through the earth,
and brace myself
as my dog�s cold triumphant nose hits my face
and the panting culprit collapses, grinning, by my side.

The purpose of poetry, like any hunter-gatherer society before it, is
To fund a currency of truth &
Beauty.
In this vein sandwich is a conduit, a prism of
Idealism, one investibule
Lubricant to corsair,
Except inside a manor mia kirshner.
Resonant ants on a buyers road flip,
Just as global relevance during a changing
Primate scenario is a lower back to reach but
Must be done like
Many of the off
Spring of two.
If there are strings attached of coarse
Imaginings,
Not strings but little rings or
Bubbles, but let�s call them strings,
Then flags will flap to unisex;
Else go to stand/buy bigger branes.
What does the author say? What does
The author mean? And is
It true & beautiful?
Gluons are true,
Drugspills in loo queues beautiful,
In purple flesh tenements fazed snarls of a fake leather jacket faint;
Yet experimental verification lies beyond
Sour beans of
Intellectual tears & mythical
liverless comprehension. Poems are to produce
Meaning meaning with a capital ing.
Once we pound two poems
Smack dab in the idyll
Like matthew to
Dark
One query quits:
Does the poem make the most efficient and profitable use of available Resources?
This leaves us with, does this leave us with,
Where to smear the glycerine,
if not inside a manor mia kirshner.