The forgotten is an asset.
The magpie’s frail Sentimentality
Lies tranquil, ensnaring, gleaming.
Memories are a mesh
Made from pipe cleaners,
Glitter, tin cans and barbed wire.
An onion, peeled away
Each sediment
A refraction.
Cascading, jaggedly
Rendered from an abyss
Of sentimental distractions.
Five o clock in the morning
When the moon met its slumber
The garlanded table
Saturated;
By glittering adornments
Purges warnings.
Dreams seize the consciousness,
Hurling me to the beach
Leaving my hollow body
Statically Swooning.
Trapped
Between creases in the sheets
Metamorphosing
Into the breakwaters
Concealing me
As your father walks the dog
His face weathered by
Ruthless winds,
As ferocious
And threatening
As the last time I saw this place.
Beneath our dusty carcase
In a world where floorboards are the sky,
The mice dart vivaciously
As we are their phobias
And they fear for me too.
The trains, the cars, the bars
and the stars on the cusp
of the twilight sky
where magpies waver and sigh
beckon me back at night.
Scratching the edges of my consciousness
The city, beloved;
Belches me.
Lamp posts, smudged to
Pencil leaded imps and pixies
Chasing me across the promenade
Before a tirade in my belly
Washes me up on the south coast
Anaemic and crippled.
With the eye of a magpie
Dazzling in a beam luminous fury.
The objects buried in her nest
Spiralling forth with caution
from the garlanded table,
Superciliously awakening me.
To warn me till dawn.
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