Romeo Of Lever Street

from my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Romeo Of Lever StreetHe's a trier, you must give him that,trooping the street in his inglorious charade,a hinterland for elegiac fails.Here, beneath a canopy of twine and rouge red moons,the day falls by degrees to that sultry shadewhere he can intimate possibilities that would blush in broad daylight.It is age that makes me a cynical observer,— that or diminishing returns.There is a law for it, I think, an equation of sorts,that pushes me to the margins while the parade continues eternal,a mathematics of growth and entropy,peak and decline.



©AndrewJamesMurray

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One Of Those Nights; One Of Those Mornings

It was one of those nights. The view from my midnight gate: a myopic, cataract-obscuring gloom; a cold mist blurring the edges of our focus-the wall’s crowning like a diamond adorned crust, a new gift, a vision.

Within the night, within our perimeters, we need to know both our boundaries and our limitations.

It was one of those mornings. Crawling over the hill, a tepid promise for the evening’s hostilities; bait to entice us out into the town. Tidal lanes for those who consume or are themselves consumed, condemned forever to travel these seasonal tides.

On the cusp of the day, we need to embrace each new offering with both instinct and wisdom.

Writer In A Coffee Shop

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

Writer In A Coffee Shop

Nobody sees as we do
— a conspiratorial attempt at flattery,
rising up from the books on the slanted shelves.

Vinyl albums are fixed to the ceiling,
you can get a stiff neck 
searching out the soundtrack to your life.

Upstairs the sound of a tattooist, 
reminds him of the dentist,
sets his teeth on edge,
running ravines
of mottled brown.

He hears it still, that night
as she lies with her face to the wall,

a tree brooding in the back garden;
across the rooftops thoughts dissipate
into silence,

yet still, that sound,
transmuted slowly
into goose flesh






©AndrewJamesMurray

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Savage Sky

from my poetry blog.

Coronets For Ghosts

Savage Sky

In this savage sky,
in this ragged hour,
a low, winter sun
glazes soft
all flesh of inordinate pallor,
embarrassed by impotence.

Unravelling powder blue ribbons,
colouring brittle braids
blown among briered 
mountains of white.
Black cattle bellowing
in coarse vernacular
a dumb language of instinct, lust.

And crying like a child, each insipid sow.

You can smell the sea,
but not see it, 
cupped in hands of granite,
cold, loved.
Suffering the separation
of centuries, more.



©AndrewJamesMurray

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