When love first whistled its way o’er my yardarm
I didn’t shiver me timbers
or fall overboard.
I found a port
in a storm
in a teacup.
And for love of jolly rogering
I waved goodbye to my wooden ship
and the endless sky it sailed upon.
And I dropped my anchor here,
in a salty tear
in a pirate’s eye.
She hit him
She hit him
Mummy hit him
She hit him in the face
And in the kitchen
And in the supermarket
She hit him just in case
And when he grew
He hit you
It was all he knew
I was a sail
or
buoy
a vessel for you
were a flower
child.
I was a farmer’s hand
on virgin land
with no plough to till your earth
ly ways
con
sensually wild.
So soon beneath the tell-tale tiles
of our riff-raff roof
where the fur black cat
ran back
to where we started.
Portes slammed and fenêtre failed
until legs were all that parted.
I was a basket case
a host for you
to be a missionary
in every place
except position.
And between your thighs
your holy ghost
filled every nebula of life
but not the universe of my religion.
And so beneath the chim-chiminey che-roo
where our fur black cat
once sat with you
the faces in your mirror on the wall still stare
and I huddle like a child
in the corner
on the chair
as I watch them grin
from the scrim.
Like a lonely leper
I let them in.
I take you from this barren ground
decaying flower
dying ember
starving child,
my son of hours.
And hold you to my empty breast
waiting for your hand to free my finger.
But you cling to this moment
as if it had a future.
Go now little one
there’s nothing to eat if you stay
except these saltless tears
so pointless now
I rarely find the time to bleed.
———————
I have clouds in my brain,
that choke my heart
now that we are apart.
And if the yellow sun does not rise I will smile
knowing I am free from its heat for a while.
They are shouting at you.
They always are.
Sometimes clear, but mostly tinnitus;
a malfunction of the ear.
The constant whine; “Think this, be that.”
You do not hear?
Line by line; “Fear this, hate that.”
You are rewritten.
