Fickle Fires

Fickle Fires

On my mantle piece, lie
Candles which burn slowly
Flickering throughout the eve’
As the crescent moon hovers through the window,
Nearly crashing on my sill .

Head pokes out for a deep breath of air,
Sucking in a vortex of night time life.
Dizzying swirls which seems stiller than the day,
As circles and squares merge into the dark.

But, lets lick our fingers and sizzle out the flame,
Travel to the sun and stroke its raucous mane.
In an attempt to tame both ourselves and the Earth.

Blackened hands having been burnt to the crisp
As we look over the horizon now,
Only to tumble down into the abyss of light.


Dead Birds

heavenDead Birds

Empty words,
Dying like fleeting words,
Plummeting to the ground
Abseiling, curtailing
The grey concrete beneath
No longer bound to the skies.

Their previous masters, our fathers
The Saints, having too fallen into their self-dug/proclaimed graves,
Martyrs, who thought they were so profound
Have melted
Into the niches in the walls.
Pink, malign residue peels off of plaster
Paper skin shredded like wax- at the spur of
The Devils heated iron rod.





How do we meet those rare creatures, the hybrid of their species
The speckled Zebra, the kind blue Hyena, the laughing Swallow
or the willowing Bamboo.
How do we stop our feet, from crushing four leaf clovers when we hastily run through football fields.
How do I correctly calculate the probability of meeting you
and taking the correct motorway lane rather than getting stuck on an eternal train , riding on a wishing star,
through a Milky way of Mud.