PENCIL,NEEDLE, ALL LOST WITH LOVE
Sleep
she is the mistress hidden by a dream
my eyes remember the dusty hypocrite
as he picked at the point
where the needle came quick
no trains will run
on those tracks
no iron or steel wall to melt in the sun
but drifting slow the flies gather pace
because he seems in love with his own
bloated face
he started a poem
stolen in blood
wrapped in the warm bed sheets
before he fell into the flood
now on the altar
with the floor begging relief
the waiting began
as he tried to spell grief
Rainbows and shadows
bedrooms lust and dust
flashing memories eager to die
crumple in scathing suicide
in a corner
barely heard
her favourite record
a song to the absurd
the pyramid of books
pages all curled
some of them marked for another world
he stopped reading when the words
presented some sense
and that pencil turned its needle
to the flesh on the fence
 cracked and ancient hook
the hand which dreamt in crowded resentment
his windows are kept dirty
as he can write the name
while lost in a strangers eye
they can read his blame
standing in hours, where heroes don't hide
watching the dried stains of his life
turning them into
flowers all framed
until the thief slumbers again
seated on his throne
that broken glass dome
the one the Romans crucified in his name
she left quite early many years
from today
 the pencil is sharp
and the needles fruit is ready
heated the curse
a curve on a moon
outside a creak
a child's balloon
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