The Trodden
The footsteps trodden will
fade and disappear: you
can take comfort in this
if you wish:
every word uttered
within, written by you and
I remains caught in
silence
and I appreciate that
as another night grips
a new day:
I open my hands,
reach out
and find your
silhouette slipping
through my
fingers
once again.
The Poem Of Pen And Paper And Ink
The blank page is anxious,
like awaiting the results of
a cancer scan:
the blank page is
apprehensive,
nervous,
it waits,
the pen is ready to
scrawl and scream
and seer the page:
it is prepared to
outrage and shock
the page:
the pen is fucking
fearless and casts
no shadows of
doubt.
Newspaper Poem
She'd keep her legs open long after
the bars and clubs had closed,
sometimes, rarely, she fucked
for money, but mostly she gave
herself for free because she was
so wiped out:
one time she awoke in a strange
apartment, lying next to an
old guy, a stranger:
she slid quietly off the bed
and instinctively searched
through his clothing,
found a wallet, cash,
credit cards and for two
days she partied really hard
and then dropped dead,
never made the
newspapers.
The Temporary
It was cramped and ugly
but it kept us out of the
rain, wind and snow:
an abandoned caravan
in a farmer's field:
we cleaned it up and
replaced the gas
cylinders: the
vehicle was a fucking
eye-sore in a
beautiful natural
landscape:
we had little money
and aspirations
with the exception
of keeping stoned
and drunk and
making love every
moment that our
energy allowed;
we survived for
three weeks
before we moved
in search of
another
temporary
home.
