SENSITIZE ©

Several Views of Dyspepsia

A crush of attention,
the lungs are tight
tighter still
on a thick lance
driven through the rib.

I lift my guitar to play
a chaos of silence;
is it my hearing or
loss of thumbs
over which I despair?
The wood comforts me,
smooth and full and balanced
on my knee.

Fleeing the hills, I sail downwind
on a branch of silk,
a twist of earth beneath
and imagination rioting.
Plunge through and through,
on a barrier of sound -
the scream of crows endures.

Or, seeing through fingers now,
and thick-skinned,
I lose sight of your face.
I drift into the Doctor's domain
in permanent denial of self.
A bag of indigestion, loss
of purpose and desire.

A corpse of affection,
encased in the body, the sound-hole
cordoned off by string.
Resonance burdens the cell -
its a camouflage of lies.
I stare at the walls,
stroke the curves
with my eyes, see the grain
see the grain. The notes
intrude of the hiss of my sensibilities.

Imbalance of the blood,
he seeks revenge upon himself
on a flood of insulin.
A coma at the end of it,
and all insensate,
the conversation flickers around me
mixed with indiscretions,
and awkward pauses.

Summing up neuroses -
the poet in extremis.

Home

The breath of you robed me
from the very first,
and I,
the fool,
spent a lifetime looking
for what I already had.

Softly, I kiss your hair,
stroke your eyes with smiles.
Your lips,
your lips
are the flames that warm me.
I am rapt in delight.

Your hands bathe away sleep
on measures of care,
and your
fingers
caress away the years
that overwhelm my youth.

You are all my wisdom
and all my courage.
I was
hidden
until you uncovered
my perceived solitude.

Rainbow's End
At the end of his rainbow,
toothless senility
wrapped in yesterdays
and those anciently dead
restored to him in fleshy ghosts -
and a horror more real
than any nightmare might allow.

He slid into the pit more slowly
than he had realised,
and daily ambitions evaporated
into a lukewarm prayer, please god
don't let him piss himself today.
Eventually, they took even that
and left him in this rotting carcass
and the worms had eaten his mind.

Balconies

It is just a balcony
above an empty square,
a fountain masquerades as symbolic
within the heart of it,
the pulsing water reaching
for the perfect parabola.

He plays make believe,
his hands upon the balustrade –
the hero in an escapade
involving spies, glamour, betrayal –
he’s very big on betrayal
as if it gives meaning to his life.

He pretends he has
a microphone, he is Mick Jagger
on a small stage – before fame perhaps.
He swaggers as he mimes the words
into the broom handle, his hands
now raised in benediction.

A blink and the fountain is gone,
the square a rapture, each slab
a grift of faith. Stone angelus
as the fabric of fulfilment
as unchanged as the gargoyles
that adorn his history.

Another blink – is it water
that condemns his eyes to feebleness,
a breeze that silts his gaze with dust?
Now, the little boy charmed
by the priest and the robes of belief –
still playing on his balcony.

Mike, we're going to be closing down these showcase sections on the poetry board and re-locating them, so I'd be grateful if you would move these poems (plus any others you wish to display) into your section in the library, here, when you have a moment.

Thanks.