The Work Of Air Upon Ink

(By not defining poetry,
I can make man sane, with the arch of a brow
by pen, my mark made mine by
possession,
an ugly weaning of the crepuscule
and synthesis
of words, concepts and other ordures from the rebel's dictionary.)
I can kiss the rain, because lips are
everywhere, perfectly positioned
to fall unto mine,
a sweet deluge weeping for the loving touch
of my pen;
is it here,
ticking streaks upside stretched
cut throat
basting on the widened alleyways of my
grin right now, between one sensational lip and
the other limb, erect
to fool the folds
and cracks of that eager smile,
eager to sip the ink, curdled vomit
passing soon, drip,
dripping wasted life, life I could have given,
out of the corners of the mouth
that produced the kiss of the tempest,
in my choking voice?

This Day, I'd Be A Rock

This day, I'd be a rock
to who's man, I would not talk
so he can hear himself at last
overlook his timeswept past.

I'd crumble to imagination,
lost to earth voices and direction,
yet I'd like for him to hear
the watered trickle of his fear.

It washes away existence -
though does it well void distance
between what he seems and sees;
on this rock he sleeps and dreams.

He stumbles as he lays faced
by faces I long ago embraced,
and he shouts in split disharmony
the decrepit state of his autonomy.

This is no one else's cry of war -
what he bellows is a silent roar
without an ear to understand;
I merely am part of the land.

But after this day's troubled mare
in strength uneroded he's to bear
what's by grace been given,
the rest of matter forgiven.

Though I'd remain to be lift,
I'd rest in mercy to this gift,
in waiting, chipping, smoothing
edges into space more soothing.

Mediation

In this voice, you hear
my understanding waver,
my resolve unravel,
a shredded temper,
some listless ordure I made,
fall to these feet
I used to call mine.

Deceived, I believed,
spun my sycamore paper
reliving a solid nether
in passing, in angst
anticipating the blades
to be hit by squat
and drown in the mess of waste.

Yet time's not a reaper,
governed by no sickle;
life's already been made,
my decisions made fickle
along with what I thought
was needed to complete
this day.

I realise, least I think I do,
hurt's a game, a spawn
torn from a puddle in a cup
and all I've got is wrong,
more or less of it, enough;
I part too many times once
with what I had in mind.