Bridges, And Real Bridges.

The light and wintered cobbled streets,
That hold our name,
I cannot write of the beauty that I see with you,
Your arm at my waist as we scour the Cadbury centre.
And the white sunlight against the windows of the olde shops.
The history we discover as we attempt the memories we make.
And I’ve no longer words, but I cannot write nothing!
I long to unleash terrible things to you,
Unimaginable future that hold us both!
I stop myself at the empty walls we pulled down,
And I wait for you to join me.
Hiding at the bottom of a cage,
We lie in wait of another day,
For another may be the opportunity we seek,
And the other might be the binding fear,
With light-hearted tear and want!
Want of it all!
You, I saw you across that browning street,
And I thought I saw her horrid silhouette,
I thought of your waistcoat wavering undone,
And I felt your hair in my grip from afar,
And you entered a door I assumed I would never see open again,
Once more I had turned,
And missed your returning.
But I met you on the bridge,
Oh how I met you on the bridge,
How alcohol lingered in my breath,
And every sense I had was mine,
For it all felt like nonsense.
For I wanted to reach into you,
Into the nothing I thought we would ever become!
I looked into the kindest eyes of blue, I gazed and perhaps never gazed away,
For even then I did not know what I would do with you,
I did not know if I should see you in my home town,
By my sea or at each smile or frown.
But I never, in wake, touched another I never glanced back.
The moment you managed a kiss unto me,
I could not climb back over that wall.
I waited on your words far from me,
And I let my heart leap about the page from which I deciphered,
All the unimagined feelings you portrayed!
Now I may even make up word!
For I have nothing to say to you,
For you feel it all.

A quiet wait at the end of a working day,
It would see you having already returned,
A stationary silver car beside a bank,
And summer threatening at the backs of the walls,
But the scent was warming.
We bought a few things together and we took a trip back to my place,
Idols on the television,
And you but metres away from me.
But hours away from me.
A rush of hours, a mind of weeks,
Trips in your car and the music, it speaks.
The sun above and the night all about us.
‘Your voice, it keeps me up at night’.
And you finally return your kiss to me.
You return your delicate hand to my face,
As if you had never handled so precious a thing.
Than corrupted little I.
I needn’t have even wished that I had never felt another touch,
For I hadn’t. Not like this.
And I wondered then what I would do if I threw caution to the air,
The waters from the docks,
If I dove into nothing headfirst.
If I couldn’t see a metre in front of us in the fog and yet I pulled us through it,
A speed of which I slowed,
With the beating of my heart,
As I first felt yours, beating against my chest.


And I do believe, that had you not crossed my path,
I would have crossed yours.
And we did meet , at all times and never the same,
We did speak the same mind.
I discover, still, why this place has a purpose.

Lightening heart of yours,
Always takes the darkened; mine.
And bleeds into it,
A sort of golden blend,
A feeling that bares renewal blind,
But forceful.
That puts a hand in mine,
That lingers a gaze in mind,
And only with eyes as yours,
Do the crystal seas seem true.

The matter will settle,
Please, please don't speak of family.
I have worn myself to the bone,
And yet the public eye feel they see not enough,
My clothes simply do not hang,
And my eyes are plump and round,
A shine of health,
But the custom, the public, they ache over the bar,
They want to see pain and they want to see hunger.
These same vultures wish to pick at the flesh,
Wish to see more than is necassary,
Wish to tear it apart all the same.

Dedication, he has ruined the melancholy,
He has wrinkled the clothing,
And smoothed down the hair.

You see, my hair was slowly swallowing,
Sinking into life,
The sink before me swirled in sea water,
And, again, she spoke of the past.
The shine, the fool, the midnight travels,
And still she hung the blame in one place.
The creature started, it stirred and with the dying scheme,
Became a foaming monster,
Long dead and yet paraded before me,
Idly and comically.
Alas! The past I had so happily withdrawn from these past months,
Has been brought up, wrenched up, again!

I meet the strange on a daily basis,
I meet the suffering, converse with the no-goods.
Beauty and foul file in and out before me,
And still I am here behind dark wood.
"Yes, I don't mind, Yes, I am doing rather well".
But still the sinking thought,
Are they ever wondering?
I should not mind, I know, not another day of guilt or worry,
But somewhere they sit, as my fingers blue,
And they care not for my name, let alone my thought.
Yes, my years were consumed by the want of them,
And selfishly I never considered it was not of return.

My eyes have opened to the present, roughly and somewhat forced, his voice brings tears to my eyes, and I survey the Manor before us. Light has never been so settling, the evening drawing in; so tasteful. Never has genuine brick built such a fine exterior, never has such shimmering paper lined the in! You have ruined my writing, but you are settling this heart. You are holding this hand, the sea may has well be rippling at my ankles.
Another deer passes the horizon, and I feel you may discover the reason for this smile.

'A true sehnsucht...'

I long for beauty like this,
Oh, you, in a dull morning light.
It is the curve, the cure to irritation,
My skin crawling and the winter breeze tingling;
Tease, it does, at the bottom of my bed.
I've seen so little like this before,
And I have heard every word in a different order,
Each letter the wrong way round, each day glanced through frosted glass,
You are the clearing,
You are the centre of the field on a white day of fog.
I honestly don't mind where I end up,
The dregs of want from the past are ebbing away,
Lingering in unconscious but laughing at me no more.
And why should I sleep?
They are here, and within,
And mostly, you are only here. For you, the thing you are, leaves me in the unconscious,
You frighten and astound!
And so charming you are,
When you are grinning in malicious spirit.
How beautiful the face without expression when I wrench open my eyes,
When breath fails me for seconds,
And you sigh in your sleep.

I find there is no back,
No other side to a wall.
In arms, in embrace, I need not air, I need not object,
And yet we cannot delay reality's presence.
That pathetic entrance of Summers weak sun.
It bleeds into my room such as the night did end,
It drapes across the teased image of you,
And it stirs the lid of your eye,
The trembling skin of disturbance.

Quickly, do the words scrawl the walls,
Severed, you crawl from my sheets.
Motionless, how on earth do I part for my day?
How do-able it all is!
How ill that makes me!
Easily I may take each day, I may slip into each situation,
Without you.
So much sweeter, with an air of atmospheric treasury could it be,
With you,
The sky the gold it goes, when the rain has fallen, and the Summer night sun weakly bleeds in,
Again against the thick of smoke clouds.
A fire has fallen,
Here I gain,
And here you have given your hand.

Scurrying.

My dear heart has merely longed and lonelied',
The night, my heart has been drawn to,
The moon it's porch lamp.
And had I not seen the black ocean of the late hour,
I would not know what it is to love.

Contented, somehow, am I, to be even disgraced and abysmal in silence,
To be endlessly boundless,
To find that I have rested in the only arms I know how to,
I hang my sheets upon the banister, only to see scarlet spread,
Oh to bleed into the water!

Upon that bench we sat, and how my eyes stayed upon you,
All over you,
How night gave the cool breath night gives,
The slow breath night gives.
I guessed I would never crawl to your side and writhe into sleep.

Pieces of flowers swill in the fountain,
It is a quiet park we have yet to walk in, but we will,
And night, it shall be.
Sea air, we shall breathe. I just want the horizon,
I just want the dawn to sway us to sleep, to dance us upon the promenade.

I may spend my time putting the pieces of him together,
I could perhaps be found in the window, painting,
That bleeding colour, that grey quiet of an English morning.
My brush nuzzling the veins of he,
Those eyes alway asking.

I see the beauty you know,
Of him, in my shadow.
Oh pale morning light,
Give his skin more life!
And yet, bitter evening glare,
Puts such romance in his sweet stare.

Hole.

Depths, oh how it is found and discovered!
Stumbled upon, oh trod around.
Since I read words so similar has it been reoccuring in the sweeter parts of my life.
A hole.
Just, and as is. A tunnel into the ground, or a depthless pit.
Always out and in the unihabitable,
Occasionally larger than any building,
Often thin only enough for one regular sized human being to slip into.
And then send in the ferrets!

Just as there always seems to be fire in my sky,
So does there seem to be,
the holes in my earth!
Just two years! Just two! And down by the sea the illuminated balls flew into black sky!
Just two, since Murakami warned of a hole never seen, a well to be lost down.
Oh imagine if you didn't die when you hit the bottom, she had warned.
Undiscovered you lie, in pain, amongst the bone you sit!
When did dark depths suddenly edge to magical,
Oh when was it that a rabbit tapped at his pocket, the slight of the clicking?

When, oh when did I fall?
It would appear I have always been here,
In a hole by the sea.

Sink.

In my garden, this morning, a black bird and his partner sqaubble.
She is closer to the tree itself, she is crouched and determined.
So close upon edge, tremble does the branch, he may take flight as he wish!

Immediate, self and other fear. Have I not the being to simply just be,
And here! I stroll casual, and here! I stumble dramatically.
Possibility and I rise to an occasion like he! They quote, and they snigger.
I am prey, and I attempt to hunt.
And bloom around me, does the threat.

There is water at my feet,
And so I sink in slowly.
Echo, is the dull thud of dripping,
Damp are the walls I attempt cling to.
And so simply, I release my back,
I feel the bones in my body slip apart,
Numb become my arms and my eyes vacant to a trembling scene.
A dull, quivering blue that holds me, weightless and quiet,
I wait and it does pass.
I come closer to a surface.
Unreligious and cleansed.
A form I am not familiar with is the self I, for my life span, refused to see.
Delicate is the skin, now young,
And straight is the hair that falls.


Gazing back, I find the garden tree bare.
And I hear the magpie scream.

By you.

Breathing,
Oh dank hang the words so strongly felt,
Another pause followed by voluptuous guilt.
Skin scrapes skin,
Oh no a second more.
I fear above all, that this night should suddenly lighten,
That I cannot see a star in the sky,
Fading red clouds lay motionless at head,
People seem not to take another step.
Our still, our nothingness,
Two of the dead slip past.
Just stay, no other words,
Not a drip of water runs beneath this bridge.

No sound passes by,
Just silent padded paws.
Oh a bike, Oh a car,
Can I not simply have them both?!
With eyes that understand as such,
I tear another nail toward the bed,
And linger there, in bedless, sleepless lay,
Had Tchaikovsky begun to play?

Rest does not play to eyes that have no seen their fill,
Like filling a bowl of flour with the butter,
The sweetest twist,
The warm rise,
Oh it is I who ache to take deep breaths,
I who spy alien ginger cat upon my garden, fresh cut.
I who seek to close the blinds before the light reveals my eyes!
Give in to none!
I cry and pull at my own cracking spine,
But my cage, it does lurch forward,
My neck does turn, my teeth do slither.
Oh throwing a television into the back of a van must be easier!
The shatter upon the tarmac below, was not I!
For i turned here with you, i pulled here and I have nothing left!
Am i alien now to the feeling emitting my own skin?!
A child first attempting to write,
The baby's cry leaking into the night,
Pulling paint down wood for the first time,
Kneading dough into ball for the fifth!

And where, upon corner of each eye,
Do my illusions come end!?
In night gown that have seen death,
In gloves so slim to fit?!
Have you seen the delicate slim of silver,
Protruding from the china sugar bowl?
The scent of pastry baking,
The slightly-to-the-right tie of the bow on apron?


And then I lay back down, all in one lurch i pulled from you,
Each image a blur through my minds eye,
And seconds brought it you!
And the image upon corner of eye became true!
And you awoke me by forehead, by cradle!