The lust of language made flesh
Your red thread holds me, feeds me scraps, to be amused.
You taunt me with owls that flash across my nervous night eyes.
There is no light, only my vision.
I’m unravelled, stitches undone and wound back on a bobbin.
Bobbin, bobbin, bobbin…look at you now, so full.
Could I have just an inch…for myself…please?
I fix on a thought, something other than you,
But still you run around in me, even now, touching
Disturbing…a buzzing hornet at my picnic.
I need someone else: out there, far from you
I’ll be a lighthouse and follow the beam
I’m feeling sick again, you won’t let me try
I stare into the light almost blind…
But still I see you.
I won’t ever be free again…
Sand between numb toes, foam and clouds surround them,
Flicker sunlight back and forth with clockwork rhythm.
Blue abounds in sky, sea and searching eye.
Cold ocean no longer felt just painless comfort,
Moving slowly beneath the glass surface, distorted and bent,
Light no longer tells the truth, see don’t believe.
Salty lips, hissing ears, sunburned nose,
I know no more than you, I cannot feel a thing.
I’ll hide here then…in the skin of the tide,
And wriggle now and then.
Am I an Oyster?
I need a grain of sand,
Most often a word a thought an emotion.
I cannot create it, I must wait.
It must be sound of construction,
Regular and unique.
It must rest in my delicate flesh,
My most sensitive places.
Both to excite and irritate,
For it will be the seed of my labours
needing my constant attention.
I build layer on layer with iridescence,
form and light.
The grain is soon safely cocooned,
Nestled away at the heart of a wonderful pearl.
People marvel at it, covet it, desire it.
It is not just of my making
it is the union of two special things.
I make a pearl from what others might
Call my distress but I call it my, raison d’être.
Yes, I think I am an Oyster…
Over magic mountains
Aloft on wing free looking down,
Colours and random shapes below.
Carried upwards, leave behind what once had caught my eye,
Fed and nurtured now gives rise to dreams.
Gaze into light and the changing clouds,
Before mists of mystery cooling to the wing.
Below, those fleeting fading memories.
Climbing high, I’m carried over magic mountains
Once so far, far away.
The hand of friendship
Hangs alone and empty
Not sprouting growth.
Portraits in dusty corner
Fly thoughts of fancy in
Languished days erased.
Laughter’s postcard wilts
A palette in sunshine fades.
Ghosts walk hallways
Calendars of feckless time.
I hear the sea taste the salt
A flask of hope remains.
The candle burns still
Battered by the storm.
Tyres wear, bearings ache
Heavy lead groans.
The journey twists tangled
No direction focused.
Blue eyes green and hazel
Tomorrow a smiling day.
Ode to Existentialism
Sometimes, this world smells rancid,
A grey sludge of animal waste.
Corporate sweat and mankind’s stain,
Rotting a dream inside my head.
Paint it black, paint it green, paint it out,
Cover up the truth until it’s too late.
There’s no escape, no hope;
Bite my tongue on any words of truth.
The monsters fly and the black dogs bark,
By steps that pass a maggot peppered heart.
Down to the basement where the dead dreams lie.
—paul birkeland-green 2015
‘Down to the basement where the dead dreams lie.’
Down to the basement where the dead dreams lie.
Where culture stretches over living human skin,
I’m drawn to boundaries, lungs, where the gases exchange.
The vapour is explosive, sweet but foul,
Morbidly I inhale the fumes.
A rush and my blood boils with pleasure,
Should I have shame… It feels so good.
Heart pumping chemicals, faster and faster,
While exhaled exhaust escapes into a clear blue sky.
The skin is thin, the blood is thick.
Gliding easy cross thick pillowed sky,
Bleeds rays of shunned light down.
Candle bright to wash inside an empty eye,
Life’s other side, not of day, new rules apply.
Inside out, the underside, sleep now awoken.
What dances here amongst shards of gloom,
Makes merry or whatever does unseen,
Sept in afterthoughts replayed,
Stitched patterns later somewhat clearer.
Blotted spectrum sucked clean of rich juice sipped, absorbed.
We bathe in her discarded rays,
The splashes and the overspray, the residue rejected.
What is the chemistry, an alchemy of filtered energies,
That play upon a world not of its making.
How on this stage acts out a different play, of night.
These images perform, not sing the tune of day.
To drink from this distilled cup who’s potion is unknown,
What purpose, effects, or consequence unfold.
The fruit of night blossoms in silver rays or sometimes not,
As the cycle dictates with clockwork regularity.
Ambience of vantage point plays host to meaning,
Falling on the petals of inner bloom that turn to bask.
Soak up the rays, nurture fruit and seeds to cast upon a breeze,
Take root not in soil or mineral earth but nurtured in another place.