Love Song

'Sovegna vos a temps de ma dolor.

Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina.'



Last night exhausted,

Weak and battered as a cod in chip shop sauce,

I listened to the haunting songs we love of course.

Sublime amongst the music and the realization . . . that ghosts,

laid out, shall never rest;

Thankfully I'm a masochist.


To wreckless arms that held the violin,

To manners lost amongst the microphone,

To Sapphic arms left long ago amongst the throng,

I no longer belong . . .


We took the yellow smoke between our lips and rolled,

The motley crowd inside is lulled.

The lamb's lane winding crooked by, (is dulled).

I'm unfulfilled.


A restless one night cheap hotel,

Becomes . . . the warmest, kindest hell.


'Via Dolorosa'

We held it in our hands,
At the old kind devil's hall,
And sensibly we passed it on.
I carried hazel on my back,
Painting shadows in th' cellar black.
You were given fruit and I refused to eat.

The yellow smoke, the crooked talking cat,
The silver platter, the gentle hatter,
With an iron crown of nails . . . a trick that looked too comfortable.

In her room she comes and goes,
Now thinking . . . Oberammergau.


Sweet circle dare I eat this fruit?

Shall I seek the mirror and the eyes that see me best?

Shall I dare to talk of it?

Do I know its name?

These secrets known . . . can I ever tell?

The simple fact of revelation,

Leading to a private devastation, (meaning subject to evaporation)

Would tear down the walls to this private plantation

Where I am enslaved by a simple, never ending reflection.