reducetoclear

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the rain at night is a rich static space

overwhelming with silence 

and brutal mace

or the crashing of waves

or Autumn winds through the leaves

flooded rows and ghostly streets 

under the giant skeletons of winters trees

where memories linger like ghosts

hung from the branches

ceremonious decorations 

ill-tempered, immortal after-glows

ungainly and awkward remains

manacles of regret

nocturnal powered

and glorious intentions

from the remains at our feet 

and moments of nothing

and nothing more

just the comforting sweep

of these torrential storms

another ill-conceived midnight

alone in a world

deserted of life

forgotten and abused

by hells searching drafts

from the windows and doors

memories teasing the candle light

the table candle we conjure between us

as if raising the supernatural

in subtle adventures

to contemplate life

long lost maps to our secret reveals

ruby warm reds, 

and a 1000 precious rituals

dancing so gently between us

as it looks for escape

the chemistry dynamic

of heat and flame

and starving incense 

longing to embrace

the look in your eyes

filled with such promise

and with love

...and with fate 

the peace here is disturbed only by the movement of space

hurled at our world

and the cold winds it creates

the trees are shaken to death like scarecrows

in the ambience of lunar predictions

as the giant planet dominates our state

the warmth of you seems out of place

in the alchemy of 4am time zones

and the ruling owls that own the stage

of a haunted village that clings to lost souls

and I lie here in the heart of it all

as if it were me that created the fool

as a classless king to rule barren and disgraced

waiting for a queen to adore and reprieve

or resurrect a mans faith

and breathe life eternal into my resting place

forever to her, will I miraculously enrage

to be gently preserved

and lovingly embraced 

i walk with you amongst our dreams

picking and fondling whichever fits best

to fuss on the tangents which effect us

and manage the passion like debt

a loving heaviness lush with lust

insatiable appetites unfilled and wet

beg hold me and stole me

and revel in baptisms grateful crush

entice a brace of undiscovered myths

in remarkable sails and leaping sail-fish

the passage of elation to a sirens heart

or the magic moonlight 

that fells a mountain path

where the monarch of glens

guard us from dark

and the barrenness of surviving

as we sleep too far, so far apart

too far to pass as wishful

though nights are filled with falling stars

as our quiet prayers unite

the spirits that have so long past

when one morning to come

under the clutter of rain

find us in sweet endings

and asleep in the others arms

far from the maddening crowds

far from the last hurrah

and it is from time to time

that I linger on the sweet taste 

of those first few months

and the sublime placements

of the intimate and rough 

the way your smile 

perfectly hesitates with love

underlying my part

as a man can be a man

to be so deliciously torn apart

that without you is simply being

in an empty restaurant

and just looking lost...

the beauty that you bring

like each flower 

so carefully arranged

and as if designed 

to make the forest sing

 I have driven this long empty road

And been lost to the desolate

that passed in a dark light, 

and others before me in stranger flights

like those with a desperate verdict, 

that pays those to awkwardly love

to this truck-stop abandoned to luck 

over-run with windmills 

and shadows of twirling, rusty blades

And weeds like giant Triffids roam 

Beneath the broken Ampol cage

in her cobwebs and rust, 

as if she adores the sign at half mast

of containment of unwanted crimes, 

the battered poison pumps filled with the lie

…the Coke machine dead on its side

the ghost tenants that were sent to manage her

now tease relentless at her torn window blinds

or squeeze through her fly screens and grates

or kick out at her newspaper flaps

or roll down her tyre-packed walls

and leave the radio on to drain her source

as if she can choose the songs for herself

and some other small comforts at night. 

The light in the workshop forgotten, 

glows and flinch as if badly rotten

as if something larger had walked on

bored and no longer impressed

with its playground of things ill-gotten

the oil and grease-blood on surgeon’s rags

the sprawl of tools tossed from her shelves

manhandled in stacks of foul leaking drums

a pickup left like the last poor-wife

left with the promise of trouble and strife

or another tasty force, 

like her evening storms…

the scorpions that pose ready for rage

the hoist that creaks dangerously with age

leftovers of men drawn to her core, 

Like a foul-sweet monster lay slain

And partially adorned

Rotten with their anger, 

and ridden with pain

Drained by intolerant and hazardous rain 

This oasis that now feeds on human loss 

and the blistering heat of a welders touch

A last stand of un-naturals

And their supernatural force

Filled with rubbish like spiteful gifts

That the wind curls them in fingers of love

And openly sends messages

Which float helpless and soft until they are lost

Their message they send in cryptic clues

That addiction is painless until the day that you loose

never discover what you needed the most

Until well away from this endless coast 

…this collection of inebriations

the end of a thousand dead falls

absorbed by the heat

in the skeleton wrecks of yesterday

and the lifeless choice none of us have left

an open grave haunted and crushed

and cursed like this lifeless oasis

with nothing but brutal bad luck