Be silent, be still, sir, and let me lie
To me your lover’s sigh
Is a pea under my pillow.
I am now as I will tomorrow,
Or, lord, does sunset mean sunrise?
The chapel is shut through beggar’s tries
To pry the ivory gilded doors
Stay, sir, those hungry rovers poor
And keep your lips to bedtime prayer
(If you die tonight its outside my lair!)
By light you have communion dinner
And that’s when the priest is a sinner.
Please, for now rest the cock till the crow
By light dewy flowers will bud and grow
Why now, when the day is done
And the quaint chapels rest as the sun
And halting sharp yawns my altar adorn?
Save your own self, you impish love lorn!
Your slobbery beggar needs wait day
When preachers and parish give charity sway.
Are you moldy Lazarus,
Who cried for sweet healing Jesus?
And am I he, your lady, your saviour?
My voice can’t make the stones tremour
Or my touch dispel the smelly grave.
Lazarus in hell three days was brave!
Sir, for now I redeem my chastity
And preach it against this depravity.
Goodly sweet sir, it is too much!
Let a lady rest,
And tomorrow you’ll be blest.
This you hold is the blank paper
which begs to be a love poem.
It needs iambs and abab schemes beautiful in imagery
of how you are Apollo and Adonis,
the morning and evening stars,
how your voice rumbles! how your arms crush!
So tender, so passionate, portraits of our embraces.
But this we hold is the feeble failure of trying.
You’re no smooth Adonis
No, Sunshine, you’re a laurel stalker
I’ve felt stronger throes
and heard your rumble voice rage.
There’s no tender in you,
no sweet Cupid or soft poem.
You’re angry Neptune, horny hairy Zeus.
So this paper will rot (like memory)
in our minds we will be pretty Adonis, loving Apollo
and I will pray to the Moon for protection from nostalgia hexes
and the pull of the page to idolize you.
There’s smoke and a stick of passionate relaxation
(how the two are one we’ll never know)
I like how the night feels
Cigarette wands and smoke bats
spiders crab scuttling the asphalt
round sun’s brew
drinking sweet moon liqueur.
Drunken never lights that sign conservative window closing
from the witch moon who embraces spectre clouds
grey glowing embers of dying tomorrows.
I hold ‘tween my fingers the wand that waves
the moon douses sun.
I like the night, the haze
inhale sedation exhale seduction.
the smallest shiny bit, to tame a beastly mouth.
Bob up and down, dive search round
vanishing points neath the hazy turquoise
find the darkened smoothed out places
worn in the ebb – there the beast!
Bubbling groaning waves
(little bit, be brave!)
unfurling tendrils, tongues licking
beckon the small shiny bit
to a monster’s trove.
crusted in salt seaweed, razor-jaw
the deep is his and there you are –
how could a trinket tame a beast?