| Sycamore I wanna shuffle my feet on a hypnotic avenue, singing a blues for those enamoured Just sorta’ draped in it. And my cuffs won’t bleat They won’t make a sound And I wanna rattle teacups Coil my life around a tender cinder And use up all my cigarettes With lust as a staple, recycling a few dozen poems Poems that crease the trouser and dine with the craziest of shoes Windswept one minute, Scuffed and sober the next And I wanna shiver in a dawning renaissance Mumble where a sentence would have preceded awe I wanna swirl my lunch date around in a brandy snifter and throw her at pillars But really she’s throwing me At the bone structure, the architects lil baby-- The ghost tower, skin-coloured and naked And now I wanna swish a cacophony around the bend Craning my neck like a decanter Fussing for want of a higher trust Lingering in the cool light, occasionally dreaming. And that statue’s gown is all gristle Her grime all muscle Her flaming brands handed down from loft to house, shifting in the rust and the real. Her necklace a knuckle, adorned in a hiss Thistles protruding the dust and its advances With slaked lime-lips kissing the road, a dizzying, parched arthritis A horizon flinching in a paramour glow. Hey, I drank poison to make it through the night Scotch swelled on my eyelids The ocean trembled in my ear “I propose we ditch these shells, mama” And suddenly I was all the way under But, man, it was a viscous fluke A break in the skinny folds of pressure I saw the gap and you saw me take it… choosing to coast this see-through living To let it glide Till it’s brittle and neanderthal And then I’ll shatter it This slick illusion, entombed in broken dishes, bedtime kisses and winter floods that smother One more future, mama, Comin’ right up Until we doom it, of course, with our words |