Jim Young

So young, walking out on summer hand in hand.
Our newness overcome as our fingers entwine,
in a besideness pinked in dress and eyes,
we float beneath the dappled surface.
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Immortality in Words
<Audio>

Where are the words of immortality?
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<Audio>

Around the girth of the earth
flung star-wards, darkling day,
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Dewey eyed o'er the do wop bop,
and the big bad boom.
Taught me beauty,
all nightly.
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The North wind's dirty duster
smears a bilious brassy sun,
waning any meager warmth,
on this sallow porridge day.
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The ghost of a boy longing to play,
turns his face to me.
Fixes me with pleading eyes.
'Come back, please come back.
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Ticketless fans plat the platypus.
In the deconsecrated church 
the cat wipes her feet.
Pause!
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Sisters howl to the pulsating walls,
Arms sky-wide clap hands pleading,
White fingers entwine pain with pain. For
Little Leslie has run away to sea!
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Small fingers on the window ledge,
His tip toe chin levers him up to
Cold nose the misty bottom panes.
Eyes transfixed.
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The tapestry has been darned,
Dross threadbare gold.
The scene can be seen - just,
But it looks so old and so cold.
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Dark cold chilblain childhood
Dark ruins
Dark times
Dark slag
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Sure-footed on clinking slag slopes a boy-goat sprang,
Flew from one unsure foothold to another at speed.
Black shiny eyes wept frozen in the sharp slag or
Bled dry tears in the ochre cinders crunching underfoot.
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As the vortex of the boys of morning,
Wrinkle grit in the eyes of dawn,
Impish smiles smirk slowly back
From the face of a fateful plan.
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Last night of the young fox

The old boy's tale takes flight.
Nose drip, tea slurping,
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Your words inflect the corpuscles of my womb,
and lilt my tongue across the old Braille town.
Swallowing your windfall light upon my throated apple,
I gag in crying for the child's night spun down.
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I sat by a fire dwindling low,
the final ashes crackling epitaphs.
The windows were in crispness balmed,
fresh diamond snow from winery chaffs
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Leave the too-loud music at the party.
Conversations just out of earshot.
Motion and emotion stir
hot in the air.
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The trilby-man, swinging, one arm braggadocio
on the tryttz sparking, electric pole,
thump-bump directing the petticoat
bumper car rearing raw emotion.
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In the eye of a storm where anti-silence circles.
Unnatural how nothing presses like nothing.
It might be hard to bare - too soon to know.
Such a warm fur coat, static tinnitus shocking
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