Andy Brookes Poems

shall we dust of the icons, take them down from the shelf and sing Glorias
the hanging man weeps blood, for this I died he says through stitched lips
thorny temple trickles, three in one, one in three and the show goes on,
flexes tongue twisters ethereal musing but he is dumb and the band plays on
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Writing free verse costs me, accosts me, cudgels the brain,
so easy they say, easy there.
easy come easy go, fleeting thoughts on fleet feet
flighty flights of fancy filtrated frantically.
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transient moments bearing no notation, resurgent thoughts swirl.
I dreamed you next to my body once upon a precious time,
your name whispered on the breeze, my tongue softens at the sound
a bouquet of remembered rose petals and white carnations now lie brown.
...

I watched the pigeons sitting on the wall,
they looked as if they knew something I didn't.
a seeming smug satisfaction in their stance
calling us to reality cooing, doomed, doomed.
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Thoughts strung like lanterns, swift riding on wings, God wonderswhose in charge?

He is silent. Then I am he says a bit fed up all the wailing an gnashing of teeth, argumentsabout who came first or the essence of my Divinity.
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Secure in my insecurities, of that I'm sure that I am unsure.
faulty in admitting my faults, which if believed are many and varied
my faulty memory and body which seems to have stopped obeying my commands
it has revolted, years of ill use have made it creaky and me cranky.
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Apropos prose or not, inklings that tickle the senses but there you go.
the wings of fancy, well fancy that, as we wing our way across the page
only to dive bomb into a heap of flattened feathers.
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what is the architecture of a life?
not the bricks and mortar of cells,
branches of arteries and veins, brain, sinew, muscle, bone
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we stand on that knife edge
between love and pain;
lust and desire, the fine line,
to caress or crush, destroy.
...