The 28th Dent

North

2010-08-24T03:51:00.000-07:00

There is no incline,
but a defined feeling of moving upwards,
to the north.
The buildings recede,
And the horizon sits heavy on my eye lids.
The long concrete, spread out in front.
Grills eating up
eyes and white,
reservations and bypass,
cables and telephone masts.
North I ride, the signs are at my side.
Back to the last bye.
Shoulders to the last, northern lungs in grasp.
Family of mine, sweet to find,
tendered to another kind.
Right moving round.
Time be sound, North being found.

2010-04-14T02:16:00.000-07:00

His fathers thin lips
Stretching further, thinner still,
As hard granite words are tipped
Over his wills.
That of a teenage man.

Doubted his fierce eyes are resolute
A mite disrespectful.
The Paternal tone casts him to the fields as a mute.
Going beyond the frills of a small towns hem and needle.
Penance in solitude and labour, and bold hills.

His lean form bundles up his few needs.
He trudges, head chin to chest
Hunching an angular shoulder blade to his mothers keen.
A row of backs watch him ascend the peak nearest.
Their ears deaf and their site blind, their hearts bound.

A distant line of firs beckoning, dots of grey fleece become clearer.
The rise is hard for him, boots worn the thin of the poor,
His clothes not suited to the crystal chill of the thin air.
He slumps into his bed under the wide skies, to sleep a stupor.
Low bleating of the punishing flock a bitter comfort.

He was not used to time alone with the monotony of his own thoughts.
After a period of arrogant control, reality wandered.
First to the right, then to the left, it bought
his senses and curved around and bend away over the mountains
Far into the distant hard sun.

This made the comets sing,
The grasses roll back and forth
like the tides the oceans bring.
He swam in these grasses,
Walked on the lakes
And sat on the east winds wing.

The trees folded their branches as arms,
Leaves winked and
butterflies whispered making things calm.
New iron forged in darker caves
Transcendent species having
New supplicants asking for lovers alms

She, in warm blooded fur stirred the boy
A golden pearl of an eye,
A pointed glint of a tooth
A fantasy in flesh and of son
Suggested everything to him that must happen from now on.

Even if Without

2010-01-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

Even if the ever I
Would in the never you.
Could the here
Be during the there?
Suppose out of before came too.

If less came the more of them
long over if it was due
They out of were
after the where
was in over by the who.

Right in with the what and sort
be of the now about
Part of the some
that should be in
not with a bit without.

23.34

2010-01-07T10:17:00.000-08:00

Tidy on swirly bounty
Slipped in spaces
of early country.
Not so
far flung men
Sit stiff with coffer,
Those most absent of repertoire.
Neat keen and bloody bath
doused in deep after an epitaph.
The total combination
Of man of vessel
to the guns armoured.
Paining, Shuddering
Colossal gloat
of early aboard the float.
Discarded lines of
people barred.
Destinations of
subjects admired.

Mermahuarter

2009-11-20T13:56:00.000-08:00

Through the forest in the deep dank he emerges forth. Pushing over steep rocks, eyes gray with age and wear, his ragged cloven hands grasp at thoughts he once knew before. He runs, one bound covering three of yours or mine. Planting his feet solidly between exposed roots and moss covered rocks. Any item that is unlucky enough to fall beneath his step is crushed into the soft ground, broken. The trees whisk past him in a blur. Hot air heaves out of his lungs, ripping over a sharp dry tongue. Sweat runs from his brow to chin, soaking the wirey gray beard that hangs below his square jaw.

He stops to catch some breath. The muscles around his ribs pulling the cool air deep into his lungs, and with it the scent of earth and bark. Cocking his head to one side he listens to the forest sounds around him. Letting his sense reach out he catches a southern breeze flowing up the slopes which he has just climbed. On it the rhythm and scent of the ocean, rich and full of home. But also with it comes the sounds of faint cries, the spit as flames fall to the damp ferns below, and the ugly screech of metal on metal. These are the sounds of what follows him. His eyes blaze, full of anguish, he sighs and then with the bows of the near by trees bending to him he bellows, a fierce instinctual roar rips from his throat, silencing the once busy forest life around him. He then, without another thought lunges on, upwards to the mountains, a trail of broken limbs and silence left behind him.

One More.

2009-11-13T03:22:00.000-08:00

There is a place inside these walls,
With lens flare bright on every filament
Mists swirl up and pretties the plain.
What little there is to return to.
A once proud lion wrestles on the floor with another
For there is no time, only false cover.

Ebb flows to the side with lost balance
on turns of the relieved.
Hips teeter in motion above spins on the heel,
And laughter imbibes across the worn wood.
Language would give away if eyes falter,
Casual hands do waver, making inner moths flutter.

Dapper hot ginger sings in throats
coarse with voice, slick with lyric.
Talk of the confident, whispers of confidante.
Nursing light into creased faces
The bright fire makes soot
And the tables legs have grown sunken roots.

Wit quick tongues roll with spit and
Saliva is left on the rim of bitters.
The room heaves with a warm disregard.
You will have just one more,
Chorus mouths closed on the jar.
Smooth rumblings stir at the bar.

Mermahuarter

2009-11-09T04:12:00.000-08:00

The night breeze wisps across the ocean, sending salty spray towards the pitch shores. A favourable current pushes him swiftly on, towards this new geography. Following the waves he passes inside a spit of land that juts out into the big blue, sheltering the coast from the often vengeful tides. Once inside these calmer waters he pauses, bringing his eyes above the ripples to take in the unfamiliar scene.

He tastes the smoke from fires, and sees the light from windows, set in weather beaten houses with their wooden shutters and thick stone walls. He can hear muffled voices. Straining his ears he cannot pin point the sound, a poignant memory now, that caused his slow beating heart to shudder in awe so far out to sea. What creature had rendered him helpless against this new iron will to seek it out. He has to know what brought him, or rather what pulled him, so forcefully towards the flickering bright lights nestled within the still bay. He will seek it out and satiate the new need that has upset his once solid course.

Closed

2009-10-14T07:07:00.001-07:00

Through dried tears,
find salt lines down pale translucent cheeks.

Under a worry bitten lip,
Blood moves slow and thick.

In anguished eyes,
wide with no change to the light,
Find blindness.

Between clenched teeth, and the tense skin of a jaw set,
Find a tongue chewed down.

Find silently trapped in scull, a mind,
Ravaging war on sensibility, for all its lack of purpose.

Closed over the hearts painful aches,
Find numbness
and nothing, in totality.

Momentary

2009-10-06T03:59:00.000-07:00

Sensation pins me to the sky.
Aching breaths arc with anticipation.
Lungs barrelled high against ribs,
Muscles twitch expectantly at finger tips.
Joy in the minds eyes gaze.
The wanting and the waiting is passing,
Breath, blood and beat left behind
no longer necessity.
The being blazed creating eternity.
Encapsulated in one momentary piece.
Coursing through, rejoicing beyond.
To suffer is divine.
To not want, or need, sublime.

2009-10-02T06:48:00.000-07:00

Always shall I be
The only that is me.
Bound in love
Closed through life
I will not see to be the one.
Forever shall I always be.

Mermahuataur

2009-08-27T03:41:00.000-07:00

Through the forest in the deep dank he emerges forth. Pushing over steep rocks, eyes grey with age and wear, his ragged cloven hands grasp at thoughts he once knew before.

I Like

2009-07-27T07:02:00.001-07:00

I like bears, they give a good hug.
I like hairs, they tickle my cheek.
I like stares, they are limited on the blinking.
I like warehouses, they are big and can echo.
I like pears, so sweet and not like apples
I like tears in my jeans, good for ventilation.
I like tears, salty and spelt the same.
I quite like having a mare, it clears the air.
I care, because one should do.
But mostly I like stair stairs because they are good for climbing

Jims Birthday Poem.

2009-01-26T03:46:00.000-08:00

On platform 15 as I was boarding the train to London Bridge at last.
There was a woman, with what I am sure to be the biggest tash.
Tendrils curling over upper lip,
Dark and malignant, dipping in the tea she sips.
Tangled and matted,
It looks like something had there departed.
Wagging slowly in breathing,
I nearly started heaving.
Warding off mankind forever
Women with hair follicles there Be Warned.
If under the age of 60
It is not sexy
To grow like bears,
Beneath nostrils, hairs.
Take care and wax (or bleach) there.
For a hairy lipped smile
Is not acceptable,
Unless senile or animal.

Into

2008-11-05T09:03:00.000-08:00

Touch me with all hands and yearn.
Move soft breath over song.
Warm wanderings, languid movements
Ripple the skin through hair and limb.
Looks passing on heavy eyelashes,
Arching coaxes slippery beads
that rise to roll over.
Grasps, bites of body parts.
Fingers in corners reached.
Lips over reddened cheeks.
Rolling down to tongue salty touches
Tasting marrow.
Clasped motion, blurring the outside.
Lines of muscle folding two, into.

2008-11-04T09:06:00.001-08:00

Held with some what miserable maybe moments, I sit.
Going through a hollow days motioning,
A vast pit.
Uncomfortable seat that it is.
An unsightly sensation in my mouth from a month before,
A year over, or more.
Even right to the eaten brown apple
core that sits up in front.
Slowly it goes,
The physicality of cold sweat
A personal bet, not kept.
No sweetness, no divine
A humming of cooling systems,
littered with just fine.

2008-09-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

Sounds all mute,
Cocooned inside skeleton mouth.
Tongue bit
between tooth and lip.
Hid behind the wall,
the sun is to low
to warm my insides.
Carriage breezes
sticks hair to my expression.
Book in my bag,
forms of escape.
Remove the cloud layer,
thick rolling up there.

The Slackline

2008-06-11T07:48:00.000-07:00

Strategically placed palms
mock with their stance.

Unmoved in the wind,
or the weight of people
pulled between them.

Treading sprung grass
bare feet take their turn.
Over the damp,
wobbly legs become firm.

Fingertips reach for air,
one step, two, nearly there.
Geared by beers and red wine,
many tries to walk the slack line.