Chemo

 Life and the opposite of life.

A contradiction

storming the citadel of the heart’s stream.

A system designed to haul us

out beyond the limits

where our next breath

quivers on a high wire

taut above black waters.

Salvation in a drip bag.

A snail’s pace ahead,

pushing back the dread hand.

Love-punch to the solar plexus.

Clenched fists at the temples;

kiss like thunder -

right between the eyes.

Drag me down and save me.

Knock me down and soothe me.

Waltz me to the edge of death.

Pull me from the precipice.

The Sea Shepherd

 The waves are shushing mothers;

soothing, mopping tears

across the face of the bay.

Perched among the rocks,

weed-strewn, I scan

the sky for signs of day.

Night drops her gown,

a witch's deep blue,

and the long watch gives way

to bright Apollo's rays

warming my flesh.

Here I remain.

Bombsite Twilight

 Late spring 

and evenings 

stretch thin fingers

over the sprawl. 

Smoke from oil drum fires 

hangs in the air.

Cars nose home 

towards suburban  bliss

and the first lamps are lit 

on the stretch 

from Lawrence Hill  to Clarence Road. 

Vortex headlights whirl 

and the Easton roundabout 

slips into the sixth dimension,

where Doc-shod greebos 

battle jug-faced elves 

as Sta-Prest  teen-priests look on sullenly, 

brick-handed for insurance. 

The scene is near-pastoral. 

Upon Barrow Road, 

past the flickering high-rise golems, 

three amateur-hour boot boys, 

all fake swagger and foul tongues, 

make a reconnaissance of the wreckage: 

post-war bombsite:

a sea of bricks and shattered roof tiles;

skeletal remains of rusted metal;

empty paint pots, 

long lost tyres;

dog-shit and porn:

stirred by time into a wild, 

pungent stew. 

This is living.

Breathe it in.