Thursday, 11 June 2009

You look into yourself
and it's a dark cave, lovely,
lit by candles,
something holy.
A holy common pot that,
plonked on trains & on
park benches is unseen,
devalued, out in the world.

You look out at yourself
at your ageing face mirrored.
The lustre that once attracted
the eye of a man or three has
seeped out your eyes & into
the beginning lines collecting powder
your top lip. Your face has
begun its slow collapse.

You look out at the world &
suppose you could ring out your thirties
and the West's end with some
listless hearted fucking, some mindless
shopping but the approaching
beginning is setting you despising
cheap baubles & trinkets when the wind
brings thundery scents.

You look into yourself &
see Life dwelling amongst your folds &
you think you could give up cane
sugar & apathetic masturbation &
boredom & caving into fear.
But those things live nevertheless
held in the tension that feels at times like
stretching beyond endurance but for Love.

You look out of yourself &
you see diamondshine
in the eyes of crappy people &

you matter I matter we matter.
And you love, but not so you bloat, but so
that when you stand on the toes of your enemies
you occasionally remember to take off
your sandals, on holy ground.



  1. Oh Sue, that's lovely.

    "Despising cheap baubles and trinkets when the wind beings thundery scents..."

    I love that...for me because I try to make myself feel less of the aging process with buying things and such. But when I really feel good and well and alive, and even ok with being older and wiser is when the wind blows. Seriously. And when the trees rustle and when the birds sing.

    Anyhow, I know that's just a snippet of your poem, but it's what jumped out at me.

  2. Wow... you really can write them, Sue, can't you?


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