We All Fall Down
So it would seem it could be the way I have my hair
No, it's the men you list as your types
hence the birds are wearing themselves thin
collecting the best acorns from the ground
wretched tethered feathered weathered in a whirl
this is a brown papered world, today
and tomorrow you'll open the letter marked
I WANT YOU
and rip me apart, rip it
because this is the pattern of things
you say, she says, he does, she does
we all fall down
in the men of acorns the way is hair
and themselves is a bird of collecting lists,
some types are wretched, from the ground
to their feathers and tethers
and wanting you, oh yes
I can't remember your can't stop dependence
how it all began, the slow growth of sweetness.
Nothing is sweeter than knowledge
when you can manipulate the tender and raw
babble of your mind as it sings
logical awareness as if that is all that matters
the limited afternoon spent reading
the back of her hand
the thrumming at the back of the room
as another moth gets lifted to the light
and the smell of its death but not hers
or yours and no that is wrong its a fly not a moth
its a host of wrecked green angels
limting themselves to the better electric inseparable tangents
of time
getting their sweet revenge
as if
ideas are a kind of workshop
to be sent home to their wives without a wage,
or broken upon your tongue.
Thinking is a Story I
Tightly around the throat
words get disenchanted
the long story of the breathless moment
constantly watched like a movie reel switched on and off
flickering in sleep and waking the birds
the story of you making no-one an expert
at rehabilitation we just know your mistakes better
we just know waiting and waiting apart
is a dull mornings good breath of charity
and beneath me stirs a changed word or hidden
number that adds to the cryptology of dogs and birds
like a lace edge to baffle young boys
into thinking they can destroy themselves over you.
*
Thinking is a story
about sleep and the not changed destruction of birds,
each flickering century on your news reel
has the same saf boys lined up for the gunning,
their make-do smiles beyond rehabilition,
their's is the constant morning or waiting for mistakes
and the kisses from stranger that could be
cryptology or another tighter waiting
like words around their throats
and stars above thier lace-edged thinking.
BACK!!
I'm back - I won't tell you about the 'hectic summer' or the xyz of it...... I'll just get on with posting daily if at all possible.....
