still/still
we still search seconds
looking for minutes
to warm within this town
and tainted steps
still speak italian from tall red glasses
like spilt liquid on forgiving slate
filling each carved heart
with blood, laughter and slow accents
in a sequence of feeling and importance
sipping a still-life
with eyes that make sense
ridding old stains
caught in daylight for too long
and watching imperfect smoke rings
flatten to a path
where we still believe
days should end like this
reading reflections
from smooth clinks of accepting noise
and smiles that mean something
as we let the last second tick
looking at each other
like lovers who've never touched
in this air, still and unspoiled
2 degrees C
she kissed with twigs
and two televisions
one as fashion
watching
the other broken
into old words
building small walls
that celebrate around us
and so it remained
as we danced
her in Paris
me in London
our crackled screens
tuned perfectly apart
talking loudly
at someone
dreams in twos
i once had a dream then
fell asleep and reality broke plates
in my face as i laughed with
milk teeth and buttered smiles and
two heads of dry-eyed tears, whiting
out from one cliff edge, crumbling
in salted stings and smothered eclipses or
granite ellipses - curves of circles backing
scars to all selves, to see if rules
left life open to please and
mistook love on dust rocked shelves
for open shooting seasons
so i ducked to a crouch behind
my sofas' shoulder - broad and safe
from outside harm, laughing again
like creamed cats knowing
delusions were true as trees, blowing
tethered from under leaves, waiting in
queues for men to cut, and cut me down for
the pleasure of purpose and rewarded falls.
and my smiles were real like
you in twos as tandem lips
asked in anger for saws to turn
as our heads fell
feathers
i watched you asking
each memory to be
two or three
places at once
taken with water
to quell a fear
that breathes fire
in pictures of fists
clenching the spaces
in between tears and
holding moments
like feathers
still
lavinia bunkhouse is like a made up name
there are boys on your floor
all around you -
not bleeding just sneaky like dog friends
sleeping
a day away
with policemen and saviours,
in sinkless dreams
where music asks questions of
lives to be told in monotone chrome,
paperbacks and anniversary bus stops.
and you're still
there
sitting, waiting like spring
to shine - poised in coil
to jump and say -
i love you all with yellow tape,
and she does really
have toys and traditions
like cushions accepting
your head, banged
for fun and suspicion
but unopen
to grey things and peace.
she smiles, knowing
like New York and cake
that i'm walking
avenues of asking, finding
ash in her tracks,
going
my way to their place.
and i smiled that year or
was it yesterday
with two feet, one in front
still moving
with calm and consequence -
not searching steps or even roads
for empty scenes
in rainy days of wrong likes
and second stor(e)y rooms.
so she stood more still - lemon like
frightened cream leaving
movement and decay
for others
to take
home in their slow miles
of trench left footprints on dancefloors,
and a laugh began
behind her wall
catching the left edge
of my very last look,
but i couldn't see really,
just sucked air and
smiled blind, accepting
lies like tomorrow
and walked on, easy
as hardcore and happy.
 Leigh is a 37 year old painter/sculptor whose work spoils many private collections throughout the uk and europe, however in the last two years he has decided to turn his love for reading poetry into actually playing with words, in a selfish attempt to make himself smile more.
He resides in a small provincial english town in the east midlands of the UK - a place he shares with the beautiful ghost of Sir Isaac Newton and the oppressive shadow of Margaret Thatcher, which probably partially explains (or not) why he has an irrational love of gravity, fear of apples, and has constant dreams of more travel and chocolate. You can find me at: www.myspace.com/leighleighx
Last update : 27-10-2007 03:38
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Lit Circus 
