2.08am (Freewrite)

The silk hand of night
pulls secrets from the muted mouth
of the sleepless,
I stare full-faced at this moments moon,
how familiar I am with its maternal shape and radiance
its skin a line of magic performing
on my ticking silence
-pregnant with space-
these hours applause
as thunder consummating on desert leaves,
my troubles pine for a clearer season,
my head tilts faith towards its snow
and bold voices grow back into the depths
of my uncertainty.

Walking
I watch as the beaten streets turn themselves
over to the stuffed shadows
that police this rampant paradise,
the one built by blind atheists pinning hope
onto the back of some imported God
that remains high inside a receipt.
I took my first breath here in this city
from its white walls and raw smoke
I cried inside my mother’s arms
the lights outside died like sick pilots
and the window’s cried with frosted glass
in their scene.
I miss the moment of birth
of night and unknowing
so I stop in my step
to listen and see if the world
in all its greed and disaster
could be brave enough to apologise
even if it be through the choking bricks
that support its misery.

Clouds move to put their stars away
knowing that ugly eyes
below are in need of their guidance


a haggard fox stands guard over his bin
a park gate appears to have its lock broken
maybe by the dry beer can that looks for urine to drink,
the rains gather to own the rest
in a language that one day
will return all
to birth.