PRAY.

My face: A coin
with a date.
It scrapes against rocks
until it is a brown circle,
a metal inedible
chocolate button.

Without identity
there can be no real consequence.

My stomach:
A ricocheted fork
pranging and praying
for stillness
as reverberation
is a gospel singing reverend
who won't quit.
Lest we forget
the lungs that sweat
a folding,
raining
hallelujah.

Who knew each breath could cry?

My heart:
The loud clapping of hands
believing all they hear
from the bible of my brain.
My psalms are clammy
and tight fisted.
Trying for another moist breath
is too much of a cross
to bare.

The hope is in healing.
To grant faith in the unknown.
To allow the coin to save face,
to stop panic reigning down on lungs
and for the fork to remain still
through lack of impact
against me.
For thine is the divine,
the power
and the glory.

Amen.

ECONOMICS.

Sending the explicit,

and saving on royal mail,

aeroplanes sail across the room.

The pilots pissed but still reaches his target.

Bullseye.

Bully for you.

The scene is set.

Sitting at the back

eyes can see all.

She thinks I am too far behind,

that I am a pauper in poorer ranks

while she is the Princess

of false smiles

and banks.

I'm as common as your right arm.

All tracks lead to the heart.

They all have linear lines

from the same play.

Shakespeare wrote about it once I'm sure.

Even kaleidoscopes can see it coming

from a mile off.

This post office of Sonnets:

Pablo, Rosetti,

she throws love around like confetti.

Her finances come from
the stock market of attraction.

She puts a bit of herself

in every exchange.

Lips, hips and budding tits.

Showing potential

that never grows.

She is Queen of Country

who refuses to lose her head

while I am the young Wyatt

to her love.
The pretty words I write

make the impact of a tree

that falls when no one is around

to see or hear

a thing.

The churches eyes follow mine

as she takes advantage

of a more docile faith.

Those stained glass windows

believe you must put the ant

after your protest of innocence.

Its hard work will be true to the cloth.

An apology heals no wounds.
Another plane sails across the room.

This student always reaches her own set targets.

We are at school

and she learns nothing.

MISCARRIAGE

Squashed blackberrys in August,
blood spots on cotton or lace.
Doctors say its normal
when it looks so out of place.
The eggs expand so sweetly
like a soft round pink balloon,
a pin prick of dots and pain in shots
is this a creation or a tomb?

God paces the floor, a Father
awaiting news he already knows.
He knew the choices and roads taken
He knew how this garden would grow.
The buds of the flowers are sleeping
as their life slips back into the mud,
their time with the stork indeed fleeting
but Jesus says "In life there is blood."