Your whole life boomerangs a maze within,
wounding the wallet on your midnight pub-crawl.
Each drowsy step, a star dims, the moon fractures.
You are lost anew amid the nightly fog of one too many.
A lone drifter with no force to sift the now of whom
and where you are, a soliloquist intent on hammering
outdated stories, served cold, no glazed tops or bottoms,
the middle slurs, rushing pub-air where the locals flaccid
ear lobes lick pint rims and worn eyes gape in clefts.
From too many you lent, cried and dried tears among
packs of rugged wolves, their grey sagging coats
and shabby foot dwellings seal the image of defeat.
The acidity of time seeps from rank clothes and pale,
mottled, unwashed skins where booze sheds its weight.
The dank, dark mustiness of it all, mulling below,
feeding on procrastination. The world is a vile bubble;
it should burst, oozing away down a cosmic drainpipe.
The fragments, for you, would not be illuminating shields
for combat, too many battles have been incurred, lost.
You wish to be shot inside a miracle to a new beginning
like a bullet’s silvery pinhead-focus, passing aching stars
to a new orb of water, green and air, there you’d be King,
commanding the troubleshooting ambition to outweigh
the simple reality of the hard-hitting, pain-ridden truth of ‘failure’.
Once you were a prodigy whose mind-waves were sharp
like an eagle’s talons. Now you stagger haze and sourness,
convinced life’s evil eye fixed and buried you under its gaze,
a victim in the wrong space. Two decades later,
you ask a sapling while peeing on its fine roots,
“How and why did it come to this?”
She walks stiffly, slowly in tree shadows,
model thin, shoeless in wind torn grass.
Boughs bend to stroke her bald head.
Ochre brushes tease her feet like a lover’s touch.
Her mind runs through visible madness,
a gyroscope writhes the soul.
The wheel stands clean, a cage with no air.
Clearness is black light in disguise.
Life is acrid, miasmic to breathe,
but it’s hers to enjoy or to spit.
She’s seen the tautness, a torpid smile,
pretended to wallow in it,
watched it frown behind eyes and twitch.
And felt life’s cork pushed down so deep,
her bruised tongue pressed; it grew knuckles.
She milked heaven’s stars,
black weighed heavy on the moon.
She staked a claim on a comet,
it was her 29th birthday.
She bled and felt useful in the bleeding.
Tears, more innocence fell.
A gallop was heard, a heartbeat in a dream,
sound soared, no trace of an anchor.
Her sallow face now turns to meet the demi-sun.
Salt air skirts the treetops.
Rocks rise from the sand.
The black dress, she wears,
snags its length on limpet shells.
Threads trail like dead fishing lines.
Removed from time, memory and infirmity,
she stares at the purple sea, wishing to merge.
feeling life’s nuances in ripples,
pensively gliding in the motion of waves.
Weightless, serene, released,
liquid moments, melting in momentum,
embracing nature’s wet realm with humility.
Time has surrendered its will in the magic.
The ticking mechanism has ceased.
Black cloth looses its structure, it falls.
Shoals of sea horses nibble remnants,
flame-blue clouds hiccup from tiny mouths.
Below the eye of the moon, a graceful form
glitters on the face of water,
heading out to infinite blue, free.
Fronds grow on a silver carapace,
as fish chase tails of nebulous indigo.