Wither the Will

The will is directed by need
that is what is wrong
the will instinctively leads but
it is deliberated, discussed
and agreed advice is given
given as humans play roles,
now those roles are more linked to intemperate ideas
exist without ink instead
there is an unspoken checklist
we measure ourselves with

this is not the will
what we think are not
the undercurrents that belie belief
decisions are mysteriously undramatic

the logic of being alive and kicking
for one, the wreckage of hunger for two
the driving logic of sex for three
these all require continuous scheming
but even without will, they happen
(the real secret - find the self
to act from inner truth) requires a certain
dexterity of confidence
a slickness that others will marvel at
rather than only appearing
to waft in the mellow breeze
like some kind of flower
but to speak?

the voice from without
finds no shield
and seems raw to the world
with a little sharpening it will catch fire
with a little time spent on it
something will come from more than just will
something will be said that becomes a thing
contagion with meaning rattles the cages

ancient agreements were acts of will over others
but this is a network that spreads slowly but it spreads
because Adam said yes, let's do our best
if we have to leave, Eve said find the very heart of things
in all that we do for each other
they agreed and so together they leap

at least if you do the miles the road will be trod on
at least if you smile with the eyes
the hands will reach into pockets
what matters is the kindness and attention they sought
as they peer at your interpretation of life
through empty sockets of sorts.

For Her Song

Borne again

a white dress blues in the spring weather
and the beach carries your hair like fingers
traveling the depths of your spine the
egged up faces of children smile back
the season of delights will begin with
the right semen delight and crossed hearts
blinded for a while to take a path that
starts now but extends to oldness and past it
there are certain to be better candidates
walking is good for me, it takes my mind
off the stormy seas the weather that took my neighbour
the weather that saw me fall off a rainbow.

Mighty the Trees Sway

Out for a walk with a cup of soup
midnight breeze bait unruly
hair asunder fallen down drop
dead over the moon with fear
and sounds stupid if the
phone ever rang and it was her
what would I ever be able to say
without feeling the dark
settle the sounds of thunder
pulsing brain sounds weak and almost
losing fear on the washed ways
and breaking out a loaf of bread
on occassions a future of integrity
and mighty the trees sway in the wind
the blindness suffered by seagulls
and the quiet that only occurs just before
dawns wash of loudness and activity
as they dance at the end of things
nobody is certain of anything

reminds us what life is about anyway.

Over there

Over there it makes sense
but in between it loses itself
in a harvest of dignity

the racing rabbit ready to tear out the throat
of the first hound that arrives
stops precipitously and positions
itself as if for a kiss

or that bundle of kindnesses dressed in
brittle silk washed in the lessons
of too many years spent waiting
for the right time too many

times hope was held as a reason
to continue with this arrogance
this trough of waste and for what
we wear our selves out for each other

and look good after bathroom hours
preparing ourselves, hiding our true odours
feeding each other dinner and then
having a few shots so we can
expose our inner idiot

and maybe even get laid
if we thought it out well enough
but then one of her fucking mobiles will
ring and all preparation is down the sink

Call across this vast divide
voices from the cooling night
nothing between here and there
makes any sense

a bad day

...when sleep takes over too quickly
and then departs too early
when you eat
but there is no hunger
free to satisfy
when you look at the vast
gymnasium of holiday shoppers
lugging weighted apologies embarrassing
trinkets neatly hidden in gold wraps
so it all seems familiar and safe
but under there is a soap on a rope
or a penis shaped candle
and what percentage of Aunties will be subjected
to it at office parties across this city and many others
this ritual of adding to the pile of junk things you do not want
to mimic how they set fire to that great wall
how the man threw more paper at it
"its liquid ain't it?" he cried
and the stock brokers were terribly serious
for the photographers
after having laid to waste the plans of twenty somethings
never fear, to the rescue come granny
she learns ebay to pay the mortgage,
and measures up the grandchildren
before the price drops too far

The Wind at your Doorstep

There it is again
walking out the dark
the village better off in bed
the converts cover underneath
the lazy torn corners of never-ville
crafty little millipedes
have the wall to themselves
they carve out a name for the
city and it lives and dies by that name

In the matter of

The Eclipse fiddled with the mirror
placing a finger moments away from the image
of itself that pointed back at itself
then when the sun went, the image disappeared
long lost moment vague hills at sunset
long lost son who returns with a wife
and children was not that unusual
when long distance travel meant much time
was invested. These days its a few cheap
hours to be exploited by the cruel examples
of humans programmed by instruction
never loved or held by the hand
where knowledge is everything
and blood gets on the floor

Reply to No Poem

Okay - so this one came
from a variety of sources
probably an early morning
rude awakening too many

as the hours of the clock
get closer together
it is hard to keep the days
from bumping into each other.

The winds of time
call me to sleep
when I am trying to watch something. Then
if I tried to sleep I would get
insomnia for hours, so instead
write and write
until my finger tips feel
the pain of sleep encroach
and freeze up the muscles...
you know what its like.
Only writers will have bothered
reading this far...

(I think I wrote this on another blog?)