Anna was a wild three
of Mystic, Poet and Holy Ghost
I only ever loved her shadow
(Anna sparked around too fast)
but wasn't even beautiful
we haunted the corner of Leyburn and Larimer
in her Victorian house that haunted the rest
we scraped fives and tens and pennies for
poor slabs of Russian winter ash
we became graffiti behind park walls
who held soirees whenever she woke
crowds by the walls and doorstep
rolling in little tiled front square
who'd hold Jazz sermons
of Zappa, McLaughlin and Miles
and miles until dawn
who'd save strangers from the street
and dance like the sane until 3am
there were never any carpets
bare floorboards but not as honest
there were never any mirrors
to watch the days line
who fucked up chicken nuggets
but made us run through hungry beaks
and eat them cold on the doorstep
dodging that neighbour with the baby
and I remembered
schooltrip to London, July 17th
who took me to the top of the hotel to smoke and found
a devoid secret meeting room and balcony and Gate
who stood above the green slipstream and
roar of the city and smoked and shone
wisps paled in the glass
smoking like the city just another piece of
adrenaline soaked machine
and I held her hand and brick
and I loved London because
I loved her
and became a part of the Wrought Iron Sky and Night and City too
before a kiss
a security guard, black
like night himself
and I screamed
release us!
we shine brighter than the Cities moon
above the streetlights
who smoked and laughed because
this was her city
and wished I’d kissed you
Anna on antidepressants
- she swore she'd been in the same room as the Man who found Madness on a Silver Spoon
and her Mother Hazel, with the blue eyes
hash and resin on the windowsill
who let the garden run wild
and when I asked why
we hold her back behind brick and dust
but cut her fingers to express our love
let's let her run wild and grow go,
love will follow
so soft stoned slow
smiling widow
but I still don't buy my kiss
a flower
her husband, Anna's father
a 21st century magician
- Anna always wanted a tattoo of a magicians hat, a White Rabbit from the Darkness
but he jumped from the Viaduct
and lost his faith in magic
it always struck me as ironic
- what was it?
to set his life against the Gods
and prove his ancient magic?
to fly and find all lies weren't on the liar?
I await my masterpiece and death;
laid bare and judged
or stabbed by pen to bleed red ink
which I suppose we do
- (Cocteau and Isou bled black and white on Parisian streets while Buñuel bled renunciation)
but the blood of a poet
is a sacred medium
O anna anna
ma no pa anna
O ma no pa
ma no pa anna
part ii
I awake caught across a dreamcatcher
in blue eyes
5 am and the hottest night
of the year
I feel like a flower all hot and damp
in this summer dream behind
the greenhouse of blue eyes
the sparrows words are harsh
so I say I love you
O anna anna
but it is your dreamcatcher
and you told me
you know when people say they hear voices?
I feel like that voice
softly mad with strawberry cough
and red telephone
we are dreams in summer
O anna anna
a feather caught
in the silk
of a penstroke
part iii
Dirt was called upon;
pallbearer of felled summer,
Moscato fingers of the birch
and this dead sparrow.
I cried for her everyday
as I knocked for Anna
in that little tiled front square
where she howled under
the windowsill, howling
under hash and resin and
strange carved boxes
like the sun. Beat Victorian
house loomed over us
and I took this as a
self explanatory suicide note
chimed in approaching autumn.
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