flat.fish.flesh

Pour out a cup of cordial,
black, lacking draft that finds its way,
through rising chant of ritual,
to haunt the everyday today.

Go take a swig from brim of glass,
that has been easy lipped of late,
such thirst it took to fill the lass
who drowns tomorrows by the crate.

Sweet nectar that’s both hot and cold,
its tenderness outweighs the chill.
A juice that just cannot be sold,
it quenches and the heart be still.

The joys that are will always be,
love’s not simply the stuff of days.
The spirit that drinks on in me
flows here between us in our gaze.

Gravity’s lens bends beams and binds,
with twists and turns, light to the earth.
Focussing on flower it finds
a beat that pounds for all its worth.

The teasing pull tears white apart
into the tones as spied by eyes.
Its prism’d stitch will tie the heart,
imprisoned in an earthly size.

Red lusting rose of innocence.
An amber evening spent outdoors.
To list the shades needs eloquence
or violent pen, outside the law.

When clockwork turns cast shadow and
enthuse the mud, cause shape to form,
from sparkled fibers in the sand
long limbs arise, built for the storm.

Fine feet find footing under you.
Stand tall and celebrate the days,
as fruit falls, tumbles, bruised and blue,
uniting waves of fractured rays.

And how does this flame do? Tell how does it feel to
flicker and flutter away.
Is that how you burn you? What fuels are consumed due
to firing your engines all day?

Would you rather I pickled your arse into fossil?
Refound on the shore underfoot.
So salted and sugared you rise from the pebble
to freshen this phrase, so well put.

The petrified whisper, whilst pleasing the breeze,
still wonders what raised it for more.
For sure it’s right back here, recited with ease,
as bright as the daylight before.

Though nitrates neglected are as lost as bells rung
and voices won’t stay waiting here
still one heart transmuted, preserved for the tongue,
shall chime for new ears every year.

Snuffed out before you got lit,
in the harvest that happens at home.
Dead end to a story not writ.
Cropped fleece that some fingers still comb.

Ripped raw for the tailor to peel
your parts to cut coats for a world
that you did not taste, smell or feel.
So rudely from her you unfurled.

You could have run freely and far,
in the seasons of sunrise and gold,
on turf beneath beaming daystar,
breathed on till you found yourself old.

Here’s cheers to the wake of a thing,
done in before he got out,
for warmth that he still will bring.
Raise song or at least a good shout.