Ghost Stories

Pocketknife picking at the sideways
8. Though mine is not. So. So, the
blood pricks vertically, that is up
and down, running the length like 
tears from a hollow blue eye. Apollo never fails me. In his musical aspect at least. As the god of fortune, of prophecy. Not
so much. No, not so much at all. But in this, in this, this music. Yes, oh, yes, godlike, he is. For how could I have continued, one

rickety foot in front of the other, as it were, along the bone- spiked back of what was left of life, without this. This Music.
With these bobbles in the dark. Anything is possible. Dying in your arms. Yes, that, even that is possible.
The bodies of small men. Compact. Compartmentalized. Sharpened staves from the tips of my fingers slicing sinewy scars into their closely packed
flesh. Closely packed. Roomless flesh. So many of them marked. That way. Marked. One hidden blue track. And there is
nothing, nothing, nothing, no- thing to match, not ever, to match, the sad, swollen rolling legato of what we might have been.
Temple veins popping with gold. Treasure. Trappings. Snares. And we are undone forever. Forever. Always. For always. Undone.
So they tell me. Maybe one day. Maybe one day. We shall rise. In a howling, a howling, a howling, a screaming
murmuration we shall rise. Then, not even the bones of the ancients, not even the smoke of their prayers before dawn, will tether us to the
Earth. ©sdrogers 24 october 2014

Out of the Window

Out of the Window






















There are endings.
Then there are
              Endings.

Thirty days of silence
Fall from the window 
Of my throat in a 
Shroud of linen so soiled
Not even
         Blue
Can cleanse it.

Thirty years of silence
Stretch from the ledge
Of my heart in a 
Frozen sea so vast
Not even 
        Red
Can forge it.

I am come awake now, 
Awash in 
         Indigo
A black-eye bruise 
Where once there was
So much laughter.

It is the
         Ending
And soon all will be
The not quite white
                  Grey 
Of winter.


©sdrogers 14 october 2014


Exile

Think not the king did banish thee,
But thou the king.
       --The Life and Death of Richard the Second
         Act I, Scene 3
         William Shakespeare


the old weighs
upon me
 
blue moon
light falls
too fast
too often
its shadows
show
too much

the cast is
pall
the fall is
all
and the strand
by which I stand
still
before you frays
and fells me
altogether

the poor 
are ever marked
and the fat man's 
day is done


©sdrogers 5 october 2014


Sitting with the Dead

Pain hangs
an unwelcome 
guest at the
edges of celebration

through lash spikes
I follow him
curled and quiet
on a pongee wave

silent reminder
that his power 
here is 
        no 
            more

She lies
an unbroken
beauty 
head back
mouth agape
as though she is
singing

singingsingingsinging
sing
     ing

and I
still curled
still quiet
applaud

and Pain
slithers shattered
out the blackened
door


©sdrogers 5 september 2014






Stillborn

in the box
on my side
knees pulled
up

twisted just
            enough
to face the
top

because

it is
through the top
the poriform
            top
of the box
that his 
        voice
will trickle 

teasing me 
with sunlight
bathing me 
in ashes

in the box
in the dark
in the quiet
I paint the
in
  side

using what
colours
I have

blood
mixes well
          better
than you might
expect

with ash
it shines like
oils

with tears
it runs like
waters

and sweat will
bind
it almost like
gouache

in the box
I paint 
with fingers
with eyes
         closed

dried and candied
flowers
fingerprints
feathers
and 
   always

the faceless figures
that fall and float
breathless and blue
atop the wide
lemniscate 
          waves



©sdrogers 17 may 2014


Recuse

you will never know
the touch of my cool hand 
on your fevered cheek

you will never know
the press of my soft hips
against your hard belly

you will never know
the salt of my tears
on your hungry tongue

you will never know
the strength of my fingers
knotted fast into yours

you will never know
the reflection of your truest self
from the black mirrors of my eyes

she whispered
these things
lying on her side
curled like a fist 
around a cobra

he did not hear
full as he was
of other voices

he did not care
empty as he was
of all their
            dreams


©sdrogers 30 march 2014