20 Minds Late

Past, pretense and future hindsight dares you to pontificate on your escape, they’ll point if she caters to your fate, and ask whose burying the next round, and when do you return from delusion to find that you are twenty minds late? But you ask as if the answer lies in the knowing, when love lives in the dying, yet still you are young in the grey of years past to believe that your vision and my survival are dependent on each other, like a Teller bound to a story unfolding with the falling and rising of eye lids, opening revelations and shutting down imagination’s excesses, banished to the kingdom of Sleep, unchartered chapters of mystical and mortal men’s premature strides, running like percussion through dark forrest into the cycle of death, birth and bastardisation, where beginners and old masters are disowned and abandoned by the twisted night to be discovered by the creased morning of wall scaling daylight dreams, pressed into purposeful and pleasurable copulation, the greatest sex they ever had felt like dying and being born at the same time, and yet she never touched him, fifteen minds before he fell from her grace into your bed and out of my heart, transfigured into the maroon shadow that haunts our love’s memory.
We were merely the reflection of consequences put into place, tall before our eyes first met, unmatched in the first desire of seductive impression, and ten minds before I drank in the light of her archaic beauty, and with mine eyes seeing the glory, and ceasing the moment, painted her on the fragile canvas of my soul, I stole a solitary glance and whisper of her breath from the air we shared, inhaled deep into hungry lungs that devoured it like a secret to hide from evil relatives, the envious paws of strutting organs that sought her for themselves. What the heart wants, when the liver needs, her beauty and my kidneys tangled, tussled up, cries of triumphant oratory for down strokes that reach further than vocabulary allows, vying for her attention, detained by my intent. Everything is in her, and everything that she exudes raises the stakes and cuts through the drift that my thoughts float on, my impulse finds itself in a maze with courage and it’s stomach locked out with fear of what awaits above the trenches, outside of first and second skin, the surgical dissection of my emotions turn from blood to the colour purple, and my hand reaches out again to be met with indifference and a smile worn back to front, five minds before she stood infront of me without a face, to be written into existence and drawn with experience, who she never was, to be, yet to be, lost loved, a travelling mystery through time on the grand tour of life, her hair long as eternity with strands swept off her head by the wind onto her shoulders, and further up to the ground beneath my clay feet of hope that she would find my unwritten face, and tell my fast, tense and determined future in her sight….

Lynden

Lyndon David HallSome say Time is relative. They say Time has no malice. They say it flies, but it never lies. Time will tell of man’s tall tales. Time will reveal the value of a man’s endeavour. Time has no favourites. It remains silent where the tears of sentiment and sweat of strife fall. And great men fall…before their Time, and some live beyond it, through the fruit of their labour, the joys born out of the struggle of existence. Passions forged in fire, stirred up in song, find their voice and take flight with Time. Ten years ago on this day, a man faded from view. Returned to the dust. Time watched. Time did not wait or waste away like his flesh. Time listened and heard his cries, watched his struggle to hold on. To breathe. Time captured his breath for posterity. Lynden David Hall still breathes.

Point To The Blank

Barbed wired thoughts flash by brawling eyes, lashed out of corners where peripheral visions can’t square. Looking at you watching me out of the window of your curiosity, didn’t change my perception of us. How strange it is to be unfamiliar in full view of the fixed gaze that found you on the doorstep of my desperation. I couldn’t let you in without letting me out. The fear holds the key, and yet you are the lock that masters the men of big ideas in persecuted ink. Pages worn as they are written,
hung as they are drawn turn to resentment on crowned heads, brow beaten, broken tongue, lick shot of truth slivers out, the saliva trail from mouth to mouth, resuscitates the hopeful bird of song you were, refined in denial, relief in the miles of love lost in an unkissed moment. A subliminal crime of passion parades on the front cover of your second face, a masked conceit blinds like the light of darkness, when the shades that hid your cool, collide into your assurance, slide the glint out of its tinted lens, into the haze, the fog, the drift, the cold of London and the inevitable. Change the key. Or break the lock.

Look At Me

Blacked out in blessed blue, dressed up in second skin, determined numbers add up your faults and fears in a crowd of….
Contagious tongues tango on terror with detached cool, running through your fiction to find buried assumptions and tricks intertwined with salicious tales grown on trees watered down with tears on the….
I’m not your happiness. I’m not your misery. I’m not your journey. I’m not your destination. I’m not your story. I’m not your resolution. I’m not your reflection. I’m not your chronology. I’m just your friend. I’m just your brother. I’m just your father. I’m just your lover. I’m just your betrayer. I’m just your jailer, imprisoned by your perception. I’m just your lies told by the words I didn’t speak while you banged your pretty head against a Marble wall of make believe. Lies your desires  lean against, buffered up without the butter, it ain’t so easy to slide inside, but you squeeze through the blood vessels of my conscience, when I let you touch me where it hurts. You know where it hurts. Don’t you dare soothe me away with the sweetness of a kiss when im bitter off the stuff you stir up at a distance. Out of mind, still on sight, and inside my time. Shorter nights draw lots with aspersions, blame the day for the length of your disillusionment, when I’m long gone, we only stray off the edge of reason, when it’s reasonable to take the edge off, the stray light bends our vision backwards and forwards, fallen, foreign gesture, frowned upon, bearer of all the love you can’t handle, dripping, soaking wet love, soured but salted, peppered and roasted, marinated with blood, guts and herbs, boiled up to the match  point and still cooking, on your own, still living on your grey and inglorious feet, stoned on stones, lifted out of jitters, jilted out of laughter that assures contentment, yet love remains the contender that endures the wrath of well endowed fear and justifiable self destruction opposed by the hand that holds yours as tightly as your existence grips my heart.