Your Eyes

Your eyes are like two spells
Meticulous. Alchemic.
Your eyes are like two voices
Two psychic sirens
Pin-needle sharp, acoustic
Leaving a trail of razor notes.
Your eyes are like
Two haggard poets
Two violent puppets, exhausted.

Poem for Eliska

All this flashing mashed up noise
The chaos of awkward egos
Is kidnapped and photographed
In fairy-tale distillations
Of a girl’s refractions.

Boys become honey bees
And women paranoiac witches
Each with their flamboyant
Arrogance and stage music
And each dances to the clock’s whip.

the forward motion of ramblin jack

Blind blush blood coloured meticulous. Tepid intrepid, wet cobbled cock hipped and dreaming on the patio – im terrified of the midnight lady-monsters, half naked violence, big tits and bright fangs, eyes that violate the baby-poet in us all.
Take care, take hesitation for what its worth. Don’t knock hesitation, it’s time with someone I love. In any case nurse your perfections, never apologise for your perfections. We all must rise up to fall and it is in the falling that beauty can be seen – like early summer mornings, talking Woody Allen and “one more cup of coffee” on London Road, under a deluge of pastel skies.
But fuck it I’m not trying to tell you how to love. Only that you should love. Love is the fat kid of the emotions. All the kiddies envy him, for his self-indulgence. How dare you be so loving?
We discovered that all great art is a precocious nostalgia, an impatient tragedy – romance. What more can love amount to? Love is a triumph. It is the victory of religion over clockwork scientology – the superstitions of modernity, reducing what has twelve dimensions, to one, two or none. Real beauty rebel beauty, real truth will light up your heart like a forest blaze. Like a satanic paradise.