photography.

whos hand is this

poking out from the human rubble?

we mumble

into the night

about our bodies and losing our senses.

people scamper to the graveyard at the top of the hill

to escape death.

boats for twenty come to collect one hundred.

dogs bark before they die.

bed becomes a haven.

it smells like our bodies and our lost senses.

the covers over our heads condense down our skin to sweat.

lomburg thinks one hundred grand a year will

save the planet

by the end of the century.

eco warriers for twenty come to collect one hundred.

the human heart is assessed in economic terms.

current loss and future gain.

they called him hitler.

they throw words around like bombs.

easy as pie.

sweet smells of americana rising from window sills.

we confuse them as we discuss our husbands and what we will call our kids.

kissing each others necks on the phones to our mothers.

muscles in knots we relax into slumber and wake in the morning reluctant

to untie. 

silently we cry separately in the kitchen and wipe tears away before

they are seen.

it comes in waves.

when the sun is out we swim.

the sun is out and the only way to live is to swim.

our animals are drowned and our fortune is lost.

future gain.

current cost.

our senses pile up with the recycling.

i hope that mine will become something useful.

but they were no use to me.

slowly but surely

out of the darkness my eyes adjust and i dont feel so blind.

welcome into my home.

tonight the lightening is white.

and the addicts are getting paid in liver damage and death

to unload the crates in the rain.

your lips rest on mine but we are not kissing.

you hold me as i cry.

but mostly we slot into place and smile.

we pray that noah will come once more and he will be sent to Sind.

concrete.

Rabbi.

I keep hearing the rhythm of the rabbis voice;

'And now say: Amen.'

Say it if it helps but don't say it for my sake,

my sake is lying motionless with me.

I keep thinking in the rhythm of the rabbis voice;

the ups and the downs

eyes and chins to the ground

so tears can roll easily

and he

can speak

calmly so we

can understand

and he can recite poetry

and he can recite prayers

and I can hear

and I can think

in the rhytm of the rabbis of the voice.

Say it if it helps,

if you need to,

if you think it is the right thing to do,

for you,

but do not say it for my sake;

My sake has been forsaken by my mortality.

For you

say it

but do

not

say it for me.

Say it by me

as I lay.

And I'll know, just before I stop knowing,

that I'll lay by you and you will think it was the right thing to do,

by you.

But do

not do

it for me.

Listen carefully to the ups and down chins to the ground

of the rabbis voice.

I am certain that he will recite poetry.

For you.

For me.

For my sake lying cold with me.

LUCKILY

FOR ME

ANDROGYNY

IS IN FASHION

are tears good for your skin? should i bottle this up and try and sell it? should we sell aging women heartbreak in the hope that they'll believe the tears it will cause will rid them of wrinkles? i cant breathe without it hurting now. after these past few hours of aging. my nose is sore now, after these past few hours of aging. i've felt sick for a good few hours now, a good few hours of aging. my wrists and ankles feel weak, they didn't before, before, a few hours ago, a few minutes ago, worsening as every second goes. aging. aging. aging.

Temple

So build me up and leave in me an arch.

Through this arch may all who wish

come as they please;

a pilgrimage to me.

For I have been told:

my body is a temple.

Believe the rainfall to be my tears

and cup your hands to catch my sorrow.

Those who told me my body was sacred will now tell you:

"Tears are good for your skin."

Those who held out their hands and bottled my sorrow to sell will say:

"These tears are good for your skin, health will come as this body will weep."

They will broadcast my tearjerkers on television

and replace the cumshot with a promise:

"The tears you cry from this story will leave you ageless."

Desperate to hear and flood your face

with the salt you believe I aim to drain from you,

you will call out to me through them.

And I will hear your cries

through the numbers you dial

and the minutes you pay for.

The temple stands in the sun and the stone cracks.

The people realise the truth standing naked before the mirror.

The salty tears I gave down their aging faces.

"You have forsaken me."

They stuff screwed up crimples of paper into my cracked walls.

They come faster

and greater

and more numerous.

Now I am nothing more than a target.

My body is a temple and through the arch you left in me people flood.

My body is a temple and within me stands the frustration the betrayal the defeat the denial the anger the uglyness and the hate;

bursting at the seams.

The television watching Macabees have come to crumble me and leave.

So push me down and leave only the space through which you walked,

so you may exit me again with ease.

But one day forgive me,

for I was told,

just as you are,

that my body was a temple.

Sunday (part one of two)

A SALMON SKY

LAYS BED TO A

TOPIARY SUNDAY.

"NOW THAT IS SOMETHING

I'VE NEVER DONE"

MY FATHER TAKES

HIS EYES

OFF THE ROAD

"BUT IF I DID

I'D HAVE TO USE

SOMEKINDOFSTRING

TO KEEP IT LEVEL."

A SALMON SKY

WILL LAY BED TO

A TOPIARY SUNDAY.