Radio Head On

Late at night, when I’m driving,

with my radio head on, I have

a sense that all the world

a there before me, and all

I have to do is keep going

until I reach wherever it is

that I am heading. I love

the quiet night, the way the

street lights and headlamps

open shadows to show the unlit

ones they hide, the robbers,

the lovers, the night workers,

and others, covered in blackness,

smothered and blessed by

its dark kiss. Sometimes I feel

that I should not stop, that I

should drive on until I drop

off the edge of this world,

listening to the exit music

for my singular, insular film.

But the road, like time,

goes on and on. It is a means.

There is no end to it,

the tarmac black, the way,

the life, the road ahead.

May it always rise

with you.

A Mystery

When I kissed you as you left

today, we were as close as we could get

and yet we were still indistinct

to each other, from one another, thinking

different things together, separating.

We had been so close that what was on you

was now on me. I took your scent, tasted it,

carried it on my lips, the essence of you

with me still, in your absence. We had

been so close but still I could not know

what was in your mind, or in your heart.

We believe we know, we coupled folk, we

long-time lovers and lifers together, but

it isn’t true. We never do. I don’t know you,

you don’t know me.

Perhaps that is as it should be.

This may be true for all the others,

for all the unknown, untouched,

untold lovers.

What we all know, if nothing else:

we are a mystery to ourselves.

I Love It Less And Less

Out walking this weekend,

I passed through open spaces,

places that were green,

wooded, unseen. Sometimes

I saw only the good, sun and

blues skies, mist and frost,

lots of birds and trees

I could not name,

nothing man-made, no

dwelling-places, though

I heard the sound of him,

his cars and jets and roar

of dirt-bikes, ugly voices.

His noise annoys me.

Always has. It is late

at night. Alone, drinking,

thinking of my outcast state,

here, in this place of mine,

a space designed

for those like me

to live and die in,

for just surviving,

more and more,

and every day,

the less and less

I want to stay.

The Morning Moment

When you wake up to that first

morning moment

anything is possible. The day has not begun,

and it is full of unmade promises. Wrapped up in

sheets of myself below a ceiling

blank as my thinking, I begin. I think of

the things I can do. I can buy a ticket, a lottery

ticket, and win a life

worth living.

I can write the story that is

there at my fingertips, where it always has been,

waiting for the untold moment. I could paint, badly

as ever, but ever so happily, or draw the same way,

inept and in secret. I could stand up and sing a song

of sick sense, light some incense, paint a wood fence,

make up nonsense

for myself.

I could find some kind

of love

or hate

to make the living worth it.

I could do anything.

The day has just

begun.

You And You

In the darkness

In the night time

You can see yourself,

Alone, without the filter

Of other feelings and opinions

To colour you or taint you

Or paint you in a way

You would not recognise.

You can see yourself

In the dark.

There is only

You and you

And you cannot hide

From yourself.

What you know of you

Nobody else

Can ever know.

All of the bad things

The sins

Everything you’ve done wrong

Are known only to you.

Forget them.

Let them go.

They are done.

You can be a better you

From here on.

You have been

Better than you know.

Only you and you

Can change you.

Only I and I

Know how.