Alexander Downie Poems

When the Black Wind blows us to Minos’s Gate, coupled for eternity adrift on our fate,
How will he judge a sin of love or compare it against the darkest dove.
Are souls of mortals really to be found, escaping to falter to their own innocent destiny?
A judge and jury in a circle of two, a sentence of coupling, a sorcerers brew.
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It was I that caused her breast to blush and heart to flutter
It was she that crucified me with those carousing eyes
I, she and we falling back as one in moments but few
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I’m here again in the wee small hours finding it hard to write, the words that will be shared
tower of dusk long since long gone,
my guarded battlements of verse are yet to be chosen,
I’m left trying to express, in short, sharp, rhyme, the memory that I care
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Sad not me, confused huh
Direct to a point I be, you “what is the fuss”
Difficult choices to be found, who cares
Damages to be wagered, I am covered
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Le chat est noir. Mojo is her name
Le chat pourparlers. She asks for food, love and to go out
Le chat a trois jambes. She still plays the same.
Le chat est une sorcière. White and my friend!
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I remember it well at the Chelsea Hotel; a ghost touched your hand while I slept.
In Myrtals Plantation cyprus trees hangs low, two faces in a window waving goodbye as we go.
A White Bridge full of sorrow in Glen Coe, a cruel wind or murdered ancestors calling?
The Barrowland Ballroom late at night, the footsteps of Bible John are falling.
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I dance like a fish with a brick tied to its tail,
and I won't dance until blootered with ale.
Too late for glam too early for punk,
my moves stink as bad as rancid skunk.
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When it burns I feel alive, the colours never run and your skin can't hide.
Memories of places, faces I've seen, written in ink no crime at this scene.
Bamboo sharp needles or stainless steel, shape my soul and tell me I'm real.
A lovers name carved in to my arm, an indigo mantra to keep me from harm.
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Don't Lie, it murders truth
Don't Lie, it twists minds and gnarls roots
Don't Lie, it turns colour the foulest black
Don't Lie, it slaughters trust and leaves tears
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What do we see when we look at ourselves, he asked?
I stared at the oils and thought of a child's photograph.
How far do I hold the mask of memory from my face,
would the child like the man he has chosen to become?
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