Walk Me Home

walk me home.

I have now made mine

this journey that I have made my own

having flown the nest

from abstract to the needles in my eyes.

I have made this mine.

how safe am I among the frogspawn, and the 

long forgotten sounds where all began?

pale ham, a hand made cigarette

that burns the lungs of a childhood 

in a casket full of darkness

reading letters from the soft side of the sun.

once again I find you gone.

but am too busy being crucified

to shoot my sperm into an old grey sock

where once walked hand in hand

me and my grey haired peacock 

as my mother talked of jesus

in a suicidal mood;

angels and dogs

white skin and growls

in an owls nest with a hog-roast

where the pregnant come and go

with litters lost.

twelve fingers crossed.

one wish as good as any other.

our shoes, our hats,

our quiet moments.

down the hatch.

down into the belly of a frog.

but an early morning fog

and all is lost.

we had love but we had no violin.

we had gin but still the choirs sing 

of food enough for the thin lines on our skin..

walk me home.

I have now made mine.

neither tarragon nor chives

can hide the yellow fish that dare to smile

and die among the brambles

with our oranges and pears;