‘Mistletoe: A Poison’

The silence of that Yuletide
Lies sick in me. Poison-numb
From mistletoe is my pride
For I have let my sullen tongue
Swallow the darkness
And add to the starkness;
My love’s love’s love has died.

I would not reach, so could not touch
The stifled soul who lay in pain
And though it need not cost me much
Did nothing give, did nothing gain,
Would not the gelling silence stir
That lay with him and me and her
But let cold kisses stay as such.

I might have been a truer friend
I might have been a bridge to cross
I should have been a thread to mend
A garment tearing into dross
But I would not relate
And so could not create
But only helped to end.

B.T. Murtagh

A Birth Of Anger

a cold dead drift of dust
across my unfeeling shoulders
is your life, my heart, my
failed dream of human warmth.

I thought I could feel you
or your breath, at least,
across my face, warm and sweet,
blood-warm breath, sweet life,

but no. You left me, left me
cold and empty and alone,
left me breathing your breath
that you left behind, empty

of warmth, empty of you,
of me, of love, empty, oh love,
my heart my heart, where did
you go, why does your sweet

slender body no longer touch
mine, why am I so alone
with your memory? Where the
fuck are you, bitch? Huh?


--
B.T. Murtagh

Blood Passes to Shadow

There is a hole in the empty air
There is an ocean in the shell of air
A voiceless ocean cries to me

The world of stone is hollow
I am prevented from the heart
My hands wetly splinter
They are a softer rock

There is a hole in the empty air
My broken hands cannot open
Darkness stains the invisible air
Darkness spills on voiceless stone

Darkness pools under the sun
There is an ocean in me
Blood passes to shadow
Blood passes to shadow

--BT Murtagh

Your Smile

Here where we lie my smile kisses
night's damp palm, darkly intimate
as fungus and mold in
the incestuous lichen. Here

.

beneath the ginkgo, a dusty smut
of spores furs the sullen air,
all full of rancid butter smell.
Your wood is blank and unwelcoming

'

save where lumpy finger-thick
roots twine pallidly and
pierce the grain, exhaling and exuding
secrets from the black, moist soil

+

for me to grub and chew and swallow,
like truffles, or like love. Scratch me
a little splintered hole, dear,
and let me see your smile.

*
B.T. Murtagh

Surveillance

Walking through darkness like damp fur,
each step a smothering slow beast-lick
rasping my thoughts with fetid purr

my mundane tongue lay faint and sick,
long lacking taste of honeyed phrase,
made silent from fear of the lunatic

eye of the Moon, twisted round in phase,
blindly sweeping, blandly seeking,
three quarters closed, its unfixed gaze

searching out mouse-men silently creeping
by shadowy watchers that hum and whirr,
counting the steps of those not sleeping,

watching me, and him, and her,
she weeping, he sleeping, me walking,
walking through darkness like damp, dank fur.

B.T. Murtagh

Gentle Stones

He was far and outside and unseen
when the city wind promised him a song.
He heard music from the Instruments,
ivory chimes and soft iron bells.

"Beauty is before me," he said. "Beauty behind me."

He was far outside the words he'd seen.
He was surprised by his reception.
He hadn't expected the city's growth,
the flower of crystal and stone.

"Beauty is on my right," he said. "Beauty on my left."

Eyes looked at him sideways, mostly,
as if he were too bright to see,
or just a little embarrassing.
No one was quite sure which, or why.

"Beauty is above me," he said. "Below me, dust."

Flowers were strewn in his path,
or leaves maybe. Maybe it was pearls,
Or it could have been rubies.
Plants, or stones, or possibly people.

"Beauty is within me," he said. "No beauty without me."

The earth, soft dappled with roses,
met his sky with leaves and promises.
His mouth was filled with rubies and pearls.
They are gentle stones the pilgrims throw.

B.T. Murtagh

Power Loss

The television dies and I lose the sight
Of Oprah's guests; their clumsy pain
Is silenced. I jump to watch the stormy night
But the lightning, too, is lost in rain.

Flicker, and the light has none to give.
Books are mute. By the radio static pools.
Bereft of professional's life to live
I look at mine, and yours. We're fools.

Clammy, I wonder; Are you alone too?
In the dark? Are you hungering?
Don't open the fridge, you'll rot the stew
You spent a lifetime simmering.

Your form is wiped by sixty sudden watts
Your face erased by a talking head.
I off the tube to hear my thoughts.
I run coatless through rain. Phone's dead.

B.T. Murtagh

'Excuse'

Rooms that turned like pages
In a book of flashing colours,
Odd and comforting messages
Delivered by kindly walls,

A kitten in a box, so pretty,
And stone frog cobbles smiling
Somewhere in a crystal city,
A street full of moons

And she was dancing there,
I remember that clearly,
Laughing in the spinning air,
Eyes daring me to follow,

And so I did what I had to do,
Traded hours and cooked the coffee
For one warm moment in wonder,
Faded now. And so I’m late. Sorry.

B.T. Murtagh