from my poetry blog
Railway Platform
A guitar case on a
windswept platform
the marbled leather
beaded with rain.
The echoes of long
goodbyes
and illicit, erotic
trysts
may reveal themselves
in song.
Stirring below the
frenzied poplars
new saplings unfurl
an elastic desire
having dreamt
in darkness
of taut, lofty
bowers,
crowning coronets
for ghosts.
©AndrewJamesMurray
From my poetry blog
Stars Each star is an individual sun but we speak of them in the plural. ©AndrewJamesMurray
Of course, our eyes are cast towards the approaching Christmas festival, but here, on the edges, it doesn’t have the feel of something building. Instead, there is a lazy, languid, gait to our journey, mellow and hazy, the yellows of half-light.
We are in an urban prelude, an introduction to theme.
from my poetry blog
The Rain Never Stops On Deansgate The rain never stops on Deansgate, it clears the pavement faster than the tribal skirmishes the corrugated shelters and scaffolded walkways snagging the flood-water flotsam, huddled in pockets of faithless devotions. The doorways are already taken, will be for the night, as we turn blind eyes behind fogged-over windows, comfortably dysmorphic in this residence of root. The Church of Scientology over the road has closed up for the day, but I feel Tom Cruise calling to me. Do they have 24-hour call out, I wonder? Working on Hollywood time. I don't think these city limits can hold us, want to hold us, they just lay barbed hooks beneath our skin reeling us in every time we glance back. ©AndrewJamesMurray
This winter is going to be competitive.
In the wake of the morning school run, I called into the local McDonald’s. Armed with a hot coffee, I went upstairs for extra warmth. It’s that time of year when being comfortable is a question of degree. Literally.
I had the room to myself, and, through a rectangle of light, I could see yellowing leaves outside clinging desperately to trees, only a storm’s breath away from relinquishing their grip forever.
The sky was blue but soon to concede to cloud.
Here, everything was in decay.
It wasn’t just those leaves on the trees; the music coming out of the speaker above me was already out of vogue; that very moment was passing into memory, present tense to past, and I was a machine that through wear and tear would at some point begin to break down. At a cellular level it was already underway, as I was sat there, an heir to debt and degeneration, just a storm’s breath away from relinquishing my grip.
