It was calling
her every day now
Oceanic infinity
the only option left
Years she had
walked the shores of a rough sea of dreams
Her mind going
on and off like a beacon
Its light
scanning the waves for some purpose
But only hitting
half-sunken ships and forlorn islands
Her heart had
sounded the wet vastness for some echoes
A sensitive
satellite dish had caught signals from others lost at sea
Together they
had filled the salty emptiness with their stirring siren’s cries
Singing to each
other but never daring to cross the furious waves
How she had come
here she did not know
Where she had
come from now was a
Blurred dizzying
swirl of sound touch smell
Her mind could
not remember much of it
Her branded
scarred skin could not forget
She was nearly
weightless now
Past blacks
whites greys no longer mattered
She only took
rose azure purple orange
A red like
spilled wine on sheets wet with passion
Colours that
made beauty visible and let the eyes dance
She hoarded them
deep in her soul
A reservoir for
possible shipwreck
She knew she was
ready now for crossing over
She was ready
now to shed the sticky spider’s web
This confining
shroud of mouldy sorrows
Her soul
screamed for the embrace of the waves
For quiet
shelter beneath the surface
For unearthly
light piercing the blue
For this
enormous salty womb
For the gentle
rocking of the waves
For the sea to
let her ripen
For a rebirth on
some foreign shores
Naked free and
unblemished
July 2006
Precipitate
delivery
For the longest
time my heart has been in labor
Words kicked and pushed
Cold sweat wetted my face
Sticky with sweat I desperately wished
For images to be born on already stained sheets
For the longest time I was pregnant with ripening metaphors
Slowly
developing in my mind’s amniotic fluids
Double my weight I dragged myself around
Large with unwanted expectations
I tried to stand on swollen feat that had walked me
All the way to Eden and back
Weary I carried dreams fathered by strangers
I tossed and turned in my sleep still could not come down
For the longest time I searched for a name for
The cuckoo’s egg bedded in my soul
Destined to be born unwanted and unperceived
Demandingly ceaselessly growing inside of me
For the longest time I waited for the waters to break
For relieve of this alien burden
For the moment it would be visible touchable independent
For the cut of the umbilical chord
For it to be born
For me to be finally free
June 2006
Bukowski’s World
There was no
room
For poetic
bullshit
Only for a
typewriter a radio
For long lonely
nights
For Beethoven
and beer
Or women who
came and went
Down on him or
he on them
He wrote about
it later
Or about horse
races or
Work at the post
office or
Landlords and
crazy neighbours
Or knives
spinning or heat or fires
He wrote about
the world how he saw it
Through a haze
of anger and liquor
Words scared as
his face
Lines sore as
his back
Absolve a world
full of
Sex pain trash
and beauty
June 2006
