windswept illusions
celebrated behind an
almost bird's nest on
this a suitcase morning
wearing your mother's
sunglasses a guitar
drips silken lingerie
on the altar and
the breeze is dark
as lead
it wasn't always
like this take
yesterday for
example there
were flowers paper
flowers faded
paper flowers and
a harmonica playing
gypsy music applause
went for 5.75 a pop
musings 1
through buildings dark
and exhausted you
take me
my fragmented memories
of irony and lust
unravel amid dancing
harlequins
bleed delicately you
whisper for you know
come morning my
secrets will evaporate
naked
putting on your dancing slippers
the ones made of tangerine plastic
while being trapped in
the embers of your lust
your scarstudded solitude celebrated
in the raw narrative of your
naked
surrender
(ferriswheels, a bench you slept on,
an inkpot , a brigitte bardot movie)
on a deserted beach you
wink at the moon and hold out your hand
come, you say,
let's dance
bought at a roadside stand, the dancing
slippers made of tangerine plastic
were
forms filled out, boxes checked and
on the dotted line
a signature
invisible wounds
a spirit of woundedness
lurks in the backroom of your now
unforgiving and shifting ghosts
tauntingly poke at the empty and
disillusioned spaces you once thought
you could be invisible in
but arriving at the lighthouse
you know even invisible wounds
are not really invisible
the lighthouse
once a beacon now a derelict silence
white splatters of birdshit covering
its worn red roof
this is the last picture of the day
you are tired and thirsty you
head back to the hotel in the lounge
you order a drink after easing yourself
into a soft and comfortable chair
you flip through the pictures
you took today and the day before
you order another drink then you
delete all the pictures you took today
and the day before
you order another drink
come morning you tell yourself
you will pack your things
and go home
