At the Funeral

We had all been wet
when you entered,
cold and wanting,
weary of the dampness.

We had noticed 
your stealth;
we had resigned to the
lateness of your arrival.

Knowing you were dismissed,
you still had crawled
into the labyrinth where
we huddled close together,
rejecting the loss
that had been thrust upon us.

You’d been the last one
to be served the loss -
clumsily, you’d picked each crumb
of what hadn’t looked real.

You’d shivered
to unspoken judgements;
you’d clung to a short breath -
nothing could warm you enough 
to help you survive
the death.

And He Talks

And he talks
until coffee lasts.

Eliot’s spoon 
animating his white fingers,
he paints her a shore
that has at its core
the need to swallow.

The cheque. The tip.
Her lip
too dry by now.

Quiet, there’s no lust for more;
she watches
a violin spill beneath his chin -

Her lip
too dry by now.

They bow.

What You Never Had

Sometimes, you miss what you never had -
silence that you could breathe in,
love in a bag around your waist;
you, walking on a bridge 
and the rain seething
at the visible breath of memories
you never made.

Empty, you thank the sun -
sinking, you clutch a wave,
thinking it is frozen 
just like all the things in your head.

Sometimes, you miss what you never had -
words, certain
like the burden
of all the taking in the world.
You miss being thanked
like you miss being warned.
You miss arms; you miss hands,
as you bank on your
infertile being.

All the things in your head -
you think if you’re as futile as a clock
that contains.

Your fingers wear long lines.

And you miss
being written about.

About Nothing

There’s nothing left to count.
There’s nothing left to save.
That you’re not here,
I now have nothing at stake.

Take, whatever you like, world -
what I prized is forever gone.
All grace is in the grave.
There’s nothing left to save.

What wait, what walking,
what will wanting do?
There is nothing I crave.
I now have nothing at stake.

What I prized is forever gone.
My fears have all come to pass.
Nothing left to brave.
Nothing that I crave.

Nothing left to count.
Nothing left to save.

Coarse Buttons Two

"Tender buttons", I tried. 
He grimaced -
“I must tell you friendly in your ear,
sell when you can,
you are not for all markets.”

"A rose, is a rose, is a rose, is a rose -
wilt it will; throw in some prose."

"Fat cow! Prompts a gut."

"Confused nut - rhyme it must.

Purple the pig, time the earnest -
loop the squarish sunset."

Goat! Toad! Looney bamboo!
I will do - I will do - I will do - I will do -
what I can do, what I can do,
what I can do."

"Nickel. Farthing. Dime.
Peanut the fucking rhyme."

"Villain!"

"See you again!"

I Don't Look it Any More

I know I don’t look it any more.
My steps aren’t as light 
and my eyes aren’t as orgasmic.
Something within me
has befriended autumn;
something that I exude
is dryness.

I only look at people dancing -
and tapping of feet 
nauseates me.
People, when they get closer,
appear to me 
so distant.
I know I don’t look it any more.

I’m tired of trying to remember -
I’m weary of having to create
memories.
Why does every city I go to
offer me souvenirs?
I’m tired of the load of pictures
that are thrust upon me
when I sleep.

I am tired of pretending 
that I am sleeping.

You're Rowing the Boat

You’re rowing the boat
I am sleeping in.
Where are you taking me,
unaware?

I wake up to the murky waters
and you lull me into death
again.

As you bead my heartbeats
into an intricate web,
you point
to the stars and ask me 
to be inspired.

You weave me an endless
spiral of dreams to wear -
why must I accept it
as love?

Where are you taking me?
Why are you taking me
there?

Every hint at awareness
weakens my desire to wake up -
you weave me a spiral
and I watch you
from behind the shutters
of my eyes.