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
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
from my poetry blog
Western Rap dialect clowns the portly boys weave wild words echoing western rappers speakin' off the chain below hilly peaks demanding degradation in gas tank lots firing from the hip ©AndrewJamesMurray
from my poetry blog
Salted maybe there are choices to be made the cawing crow doesn't seem conflicted undisturbed by harbingers of the future I will roll down the hill drift out to sea taste the salt on my tongue a seasoning to keep me for tomorrow ©AndrewJamesMurray
from my poetry blog
from my poetry blog
Dead Bird The kids are fascinated by the varying states of putrefaction. Every morning we pause, compare it to yesterday's studied image. "Where have it's eyes gone? Have they sunk into its skull?" Half-covered by an overnight shroud of autumn leaves, provoking a conflict of opinion. The girl thinks it should be buried out of decency, the boy eager to glimpse its surfacing skeleton. Every day its stomach is drawn in, the ribs rising. Then this morning, stunned: the bird is gone, perhaps removed by a conscientious council worker. The boy thinks that it's been dragged off to be devoured by a fox, or a cat, but whatever it was it must have been really down on its luck, falling on that desiccated morsel for a feast. ©AndrewJamesMurray
