Thursday, 22 March 2012

Don't you go telling

These little blue books    
tucked beneath the skin
told the tale of the hurts    
(like nobody knew)
that patterned us
What I did to you you took politely
the gifts with the surprise poured out            
We were forever clouding the air 
with tiny gracious smiles
pretending to forgive each other
working at our fine stitching

Should we ever shake free 
of the disease’s history             
we would come back 
to a plain hunger
and the irregular senses
let lovely bruises be 
the tokens of uneven pressures
and mattered delight

Our arthritic tongues complain
because we cannot be bored
The sun is cruel to everyone
curing us as accidental meat
so that regular people
can have a butchers

We'll throw the rope to the raggedy shore
stripping to our shivering coordinates
before the energy of almost there 
a bleeding and corrosive light

Let all the blue books everywhere 

burn up to the silver fine ash
that waits for the green tips 
of our paysan fingers
to dip in

Now love, let’s you and I be friends
and shake our dirty hands


  1. "Now love, let's you and I be friends
    and shake our dirty hands" ...

    I'm still shaking.

  2. Thanks for staying with the work, Larry. It's good to look back. I've been writing so intensively over the last few months that I haven't had a chance to reflect on what's gone before.