Bee Book

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Handmade by me 🙂

“I hear the buzz,

The dance,

The vibrations of light and

Sun

 

Shadowed by the ebbing

Of latticed tongue

Winged,

Gossamer strong

 

Torn words,

Sweet words,

Pulsed out in the thrum”

 

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At Sea – Part Two

I stood under necrotic grey,

And heard the calling of crows,

Long caws stitching wounds

Only I and the gods could know,

And I grew tired,

Sank into winter’s monochrome

Painting the ceiling

Of the cathedral

Of our planetary home,

Despondence,

Pray, ground, alone;

Despotic vespers half-danced

From the knees

To a blind dull dome

I writhed and exalted for summer,

For other birds already flown,

Whispered words about

Bright plumage gone

Added an ‘amen’

In a stream of sibilant drone

Land-locked in urban wilderness,

I still find myself at sea

Stranded on the frozen waves

That will not bear me

Closer back through the years

To when the Albatross

Didn’t follow

Nor to when the roars

Of prevailing loss

Couldn’t other sounds swallow

Nor to when the sky was

A victim of theft,

Robbed of blue and indigo and yellow,

Nor to when I was robbed too,

Made bereft

And knew the blow

Of death’s fist

Punching in sorrow

You aren’t here,

It’s black and white,

Written in 2D shades

Done;

The light has been dialled down,

I will age,

You will stay young,

Cue the hissing of haunting serpents

And the dimming of the sun

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Moon Cake

Birthday cake, yours,

A bloated moon that doesn’t shine;

We gather and ignite

Candles as gnarled as trees

Grown in fairy tales

You are not here

To blow them out

But have still taken root

In thoughts that sit like petulant goblins,

In belongings that slump unused

I cannot fill your boots

Lurking by the door

There is nothing to get you but flowers;

We are heavy

But still sing, uninspired drone

Fan the flames away

In thin whines of smoke

And I see the long wings of grief,

Dogged albatross sorrow

Cutting incandescent night,

Dipping across blackened wicks,

Wax sticks standing small

Beneath their now extinguished light

Like the Ancient Mariner,

I must tell anyone with ears

Your tale

Since eleven years

Have over passed

And I still find myself at sea

With the battering waves

And twisted serpents

Howling up a gale

As long as the loyal bird of loss

Takes time to follow me,

Everyone will know your name

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November

I’ll take this November

To remember,

Not gunpowder, not parliament, or plots,

But you who lived,

Law of language running.

Treason when you were made silent

Stopped.

The words you could

No longer say were coloured,

Torture on the rack;

Golden words,

Goodbye in red

Splintering dark between

I think of my co-conspirator

Your consonants of love in green,

And want my childhood back

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Insidious Fold Out Book

Use.2 Use

In the keep,

The walls are stretched,

Ink smudged

With mould that

Blooms, changes shape,

And grows

Into the monster’s snarl

Large and disjointed growl

Of some dishevelled creature

Which has its wiles

And misfortune

Dripping from its jowls

Some salivary Morse code,

Here a dash and a dot

Abroad in the clawprints

Where it has crawled

To tower top,

The boards shrinking

And wood withered

Away from poisonous

Padded foot

If we could only drown

The damn thing in the moat,

Or throw it in the hold –

Yet

This thought or that

Keeps the being’s spirit

Afloat, kicking, alive,

No good

We’ll whistle a song, stoke

The flames and lock the

Doors shut;

If we stop, go silent

We’ll hear the handle turn

Or the thud, thud, thud

And howls

From above

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Eaves

It’s autumn,

A cold night between the eaves,

We’re playing poker

In the loft space,

Piling cards on an old tea chest,

A make shift desk

In the near dark,

As the wind,

Ominous as a disembodied voice,

Drags drawn out vowels

On the roof,

Then flings them away

You smile, choose from

The untidy heap

It’s your turn

To make a deal;

Your chance to ace,

Club the queens,

Bury me deck deep

With a black spade,

Steep the loss,

Collect the chips,

Make sure nothing comes cheap,

Take the uppermost leaf

From the diamonds folding

At the top of the house

Make some slight

Under the slant of slate,

A room seemingly freight

With winning and losing

And slipping and using

What we have into the game,

No tricks,

Only measured play,

The capacity for woe, worry,

Elation, the power

To berate making their way

As spectators,

Perhaps passion

Arriving late

Your smile widens,

Though I keep an impassive face;

Anticipation acting chief

As our hands are revealed,

You have only drawn hearts

At the point of defeat,

And I understand

In love, there is no triumph

To be had,

Nor small victories to keep,

As the reward is in surprise

When doubt is relieved

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The Abyss

I stare into the abyss,

And it is familiar,

And I can name all of its

Fantastical beasts which writhe

Unguarded in collected myopia,

Short-sighted serpents

Colliding amongst canopias

Half gathered in the corners –

There are no opticians

In purgatory

Nor are there bakers,

Or tinkers, or bankers,

Though you can expect to find

Your former lovers:

The Perdita’s, the Lolita’s, the Cain’s,

Embodiments of loss,

Seduction, murder

Stark in the flesh;

Each one brilliant,

Each one to blame,

The past combustible

With repeated mistakes,

Which, once stacked,

Are explosive enough to wreath

All of limbo in flames

Where are our angels?

Can we recognise a face?

Or do we wander unseen

Fallen from favour and grace

In a continuous parade unravelling

Biblical verse,

Disciples turning circles

To end where they meet,

Searching for someone to wash their

Hands and feet in a dry land

The dust clouding common sight

I stare into the abyss,

And it is the same,

All of the beasts named

With blind blunt syllables

Dropping through the air

With the casting of the first stone,

Their pelts fair game

For a wondrous throne

I unfurl a ‘Welcome’ mat

And unpack a suitcase;

Today, no man’s land is my home

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