to a muse

.

much has been written about the moon;

the sway of her hips
the rush of lace
as her hem laps against rough solitudes 
and the constant study of drowning

far from masked horrors
and swashbuckling hands of clocks
i often delve the earth
and soak in the keen outer distances

to remember this simple truth;

how lovely you are

you, ancient starlight on my empty pages

.

become

 

i found you butterfly haggard in tungsten darkness

wanting to throw the switch:

every wishing well would vomit disco silver

and scoop you into nothingness

 

i wonder who died that night, often

a burr against my skin, your laughter hides everywhere

i don’t fall, my bones don’t break, brittle chatter safe beneath scars

wishing for soft lightning, anything but the rough bark of the morning

god took you, and left

anniversaries

my love

something pulls at me like a tide;

perhaps to collar me,
insist my lungs can navigate
a depth, a darkness, to you

suddenly the hunger remembers
to plunge hotly down down down

down beyond twilight

down beyond colours swallowed

among silent scuttle crunch thud
visceral entombment of raging senses

a foot trapped, caught, reeling,
bubbles escape carrying screams
arms flail (they could be stumps/coral/schools of silver fish by now)

the frantic mosaic of final moments

the search for air

is the search for you

. edward scissor hands .

sonja benskin mesher

he asked if i like it, i said yes, you see,

i like scissors.

been waiting an hour or so,

for words to come, although

deemed prolific, i do get stuck

some mornings.

so at just past seven

thirty, i have made the beds tidy,

washed the dishes.

bathed, dressed and perfumed,

the cheap one, everyday,

still had no words

inclined.

yes, i do like edward scissor hands,

and i do so like scissors.

my mother had one pair

that I remember, made special

with words, and to be careful

it is the only pair.

damaged later cutting  a live

electric wire, she survived.

the budgie suffered.

sbm.

View original post

i will tell you this

 
i will collect you in my arms
all of you
 
 
as you wish
from the merest shadow you may call me
 
 
i will leave through
the sound of a coin
on a marble step
 
 

. the meaning .

sonja benskin mesher

seems to be required
these days.

perhaps always.

he says there is no meaning,
i believe him, for in this life
of vaguaries
i make my own.

this is the work.
i mean it.

sbm.

View original post

it’s ok

we bought the flood
a small small river of blood
a trickle from a tickle

it’s ok, really ok, he sighed
with his eyes to the moon

open wide

his tongue glistened
like a pearl
we listened
to him talk of a girl

who lives there, way up there
lighter than air
shiny and fair
with words in her hair

she is weighed down
by her crown
weigh down
way down

trees

trees stand like my bones

they laugh my footsteps
and dress me in the morning

my mouth swims among roots

a world and its history pass through
the open skull of my heart

it whistles

our sweet verse

solipsis (collaboration with Brittany Ortega)

as if pebbles underfoot
the sky sings a coarse lullaby

we sit
stubborn and thick
in the clenched pipe of time
unable to pass us

it seems strange, now,
thorns have cleared a path for us;
clouds bulge
in dark promise

oh, the envious hymnal breeze!
how it wrings its wrists
in heavy handed disbelief

a cathedral of trees
holds you and me between earth
and spangled evening

our geometries slowly converge

the unknown looks away in fear
as the pulp of our understanding
sweetens the ink of our verse
intertwined

from broken shells the bird steps
from her beak night screams
missiles of ancient light

weave the moon

dream of spirals

in my dream of spirals
we meet on the stairs
at the shoulder of the world

may i? i ask as i gather you in my arms;
in our cloak of words
our filigreed cocoon of thought

here, in our dawn of skin
we shine softly

and spill from a thousand kisses

through an open window