Archive for September, 2018

My Father was an average achiever

Posted in Uncategorized on September 5, 2018 by antonyowen

adult art black and white group

Photo by Mikes Photos on Pexels.com

In places that didn’t matter to people who didn’t matter

skinheads paint-sprayed their names so they mattered to Julie is a slag

but I was the keeper of clouds making art from the ripped denim sky.

 

I never mattered to myself for the chrysalis was my second skin

you can live for a day until the day repeats itself and you are man,

you can die for a time until you smash a watch and see its makings.

 

I am much like my Father who watched sky unmade by manic pistons,

an average achiever who turned up at parties adding water to Sauvignon,

a man who pissed standing up so he could turn water red like a crap Jesus.

 

My Father was an average achiever who shouts orders to men in his sleep,

he breathes like a Haidenhain at full pelt and produces parts of his secret life.

My Father is an average achiever yet he made me when he was nearly broken

 

 

 

The motherships have left us

Posted in Uncategorized on September 3, 2018 by antonyowen
pregnant woman standing near seashore during sunset

Photo by Ibrahim Asad on Pexels.com

 

 

I miss the blood red sky of my Mother,

spent nine months there drinking her rain

watched my Fathers hands mould me into storms

never felt his touch though, always like a melting snow.

 

I miss seeing my limbs form into flowers and pull at the vine

spent a lifetime before a lifetime so warm was I,

watched phantoms through skin fade to grey

never saw a darkness like that and yet I –

 

I am darkness now watching the motherships come to shore,

always the lighthouse keeper, don’t want to be no more.

I see the motherships with their sails of precious cargo

never held such gifts, yet carried them far though.

 

I miss the dream-lights that shot across my Mothers sky,

anchored to her knot rope aweigh from her seafloor

I rowed my arms from the shallows to a crepuscule,

it was January and I drowned in the arms of her.

 

I am darkness now, my Mother furniture-walking to death

and all I see is a ship made of uncollected shells.

It is me who will carry her back to the sea

a bit of me in her, a bit of her in me.

 

We are always somebody’s son or daughter

some of us on the seabed tuck them into birth-water.

Not going to lie but I am a thousand grains of sand to ending

I am the wave that went off course, pulled back to break then wending.

 

I am the driftwood of a mothership like all of you floating

in the yacht of moon their will be a place for all of us to sink.