discardment

wait for sunrise

wait for sunrise
like I wait for a poem
days between
the sunrises
of poems now
when they return they are
most beautiful

I feel rainfall

I feel rainfall
like a feeling

when I gathered the colours

when I gathered the colours
of a rainbow

it too
became invisible

I am perishable

I am perishable

addiction
of authenticity

sun-dry flower
in a wilderness
of sunshine

how odd
to be
alone
yet

she
may think of me

this afternoon

this afternoon
there is
no carton

how am I
to exist
without
myself?

or that
I could not
hear the sermon
of her heart?

days of illness

days of illness
unable to rise

ask none for help
there is none to come

there is no grey
more than this grey

no hurt more
than retrospect

no addiction more
than desecration

of The Temple
inside ourselves

the sun was on my skin

the sun was on my skin
I wondered if it would bring rain
like love?

3’s

because I wrote your name
in the mist
on the shower
it’s like a tattoo

I write my poems
like the sky
describes itself

I have made of you
a sky
you are over me

I dreamt I lifted the skirt

I dreamt I lifted the skirt
of the Goddess up
she smiled from the dais
and the mound shaped
by the white undies
was what it was

done with it

done with it
go to get a carton
go where I know
myself

seasons of
annihilation
days of illness
to follow

I could watch her
beautiful eyes full
of kindness
alone

on a shore
of self

wanting her hands
upon me

morning was

morning was
a garden

afternoon
& I find

them songs
sing them

cause I
want too

I
devising

a time machine
to find

her again

said to Buddha

said to Buddha
‘to know anything at all
you need to go with out
you obviously didn’t’

across the road

across the road
they point the Buddha statue
at me
like I don’t know
the meaning of that

Buddha

Buddha
was obese
another
salesman

Friday

Friday
day of
sermon

the sad
Cathedral
of my
eyes

survival is words

survival is words
to make poems
from

day of

day of
recovery
sad
rejuvenation

the body
siting in sunlight
making
vitamin D

I want to go

I want to go
to the sanctum
of your poem

running my hand

running my hand
through the air
the invisible her

‘Harvey Weinstein
David!’
she shouts
at me

and I draw
my hand
away

and we
smile
at each
other

in the
invisible

I’m playing Springsteen

I’m playing Springsteen
and I like that in me