Sense of Scenery

Poems from June



‘All Grown Up’


House plays Silent Night on his piano in the low light

On some vacant winter night in the antiquity of meditation

I sail through the visions of a familiar face

Of one that I dream and I now know is my only salvation

There wields a great open page

Upon staffs of misery and twisted bars become self-medication


Revolving doors of voyeuristic lust; peering through the keyholes

Into rooms of enchanted ideal and comic book tits piercing fine thin leathers

Such as a child

There’s magic in the pornography of silk wet dreams


Hidden messages

House continues to play Silent Night on his heavy, black piano

Under weighted keys of wood and cream

Smoke issues just under the surface of the snow

Milky faces and hard worn skins of family and future lovers

Clad in the hands of God and lacquered warm woods

A wool coat scented with her perfume

Of the girl you have yet to know

And she’ll give the gift of life meaning in ways of no clustered chord; of no barbed note

Your infantile head would swoon like a drug

And upon her warm cheek you would kiss

And you’d likely grow up for once



‘The Paraphernalia of Loyalty’


So you finally see the idiotic loyalty of trying to sustain your former lives

And it’s the salesman giving you the handshake for your return investment

And it’s the watch you get after 50 years of service with its ups and downs

Like embryonic jars and moulded statues of clay

Like the dust that settles in the 4th dimension of a room

Such is the netherworld of the fly

You can spend a lifetime filling up this museum hall

Little by little the echoes and reverberations change pitch and tone

You run your hand across the hardened surface of a memory

In the ritualism of moans and murmur

The formaldehyde of rhyme and reason

Such observations to keep one from looking skyward

And everything in here gave to you and took from you

For what you mistook bronze for gold

In every certainty of youth begat the shape of old

In all your hopes to close relationships in a fools sentiment

You want nothing more than the eternal infection of wounds