I was in a bar outside
the gates of Pompeii,
it was already morning
and as the curtains began
to close on the moon and
the stars were turning off
their lights, she lit a cigarette
and as the smoke swirled
in the sound of mysterious
jazz I thought of Vesuvius
looking over us like some
viscous god. And between
the reflection of midnight
drunkards and broken hearts,
I didn’t know if it was the way
she held her glass or the way
she put it to her lips that made
me think she knew something
about love that I did not. She
looked at me and said something
in Italian then she looked away
crossed her legs and lit another
cigarette, I guess she said
where are you going?
I whispered Palermo …
Clay.M

She was a twenty something
art student with just enough
cleavage to allure my attention,
she spoke with an elegant whisper,
her hair resembled a roosters ****
although her red framed glasses
complimented the style brilliantly.
I have read all your poetry she said,
you are so openly honest about
prostitution, drunkards in ******
strip clubs, washed up poets in
drug infused jazz joints, the cruelty
of bull fighting and oh my god
*******!. You must be confusing
me with someone else I said. I went
back to my lonely room and wrote
this down …
Clay.M

Give me something
solid to lean upon,
a dream to unlock
a thousand variables,
let me hear the battle
in your voice, the
theatrical expression
of your vengefulness,
let me wash the war
paint from your
pure - white - skin,
let me read your
obscene letters of lust,
let me witness the
sacrifice of your touch,
let me feel the absence
of your love,
let me miss you,
let me leave it as it is
- unfinished …
Clay.M

In the glow of distant
lights, in the tangled
mess of all that is
unreachable, I listen
to the shooting stars
I am deafened by the
hum of sad melodies,
I see the half moon
swing in the shadow
of a broken heart, I will
go to places where drunk
poets are wrapped in smoke
and absurd isolation,
where women dance with
painted smiles and blue fire
and call it love, I will go to
places where silence fills
the air with beautiful stories,
I will go where madness
is too afraid to follow …
Clay.M

Somehow
the first sign of
daylight dissolved
my good intentions,
nothing at all seemed
to shine, every thought
was filtered through
dark water, the sun was
painted grey, my dreams
were cold as distant
mountains, I washed my
face in the silent river,
I ignored its imperfections
I ignored my own.
I listen to the stories
of the forest,
I walked away my sadness
in the rain …
Clay.M

Sometimes I keep
the curtains closed
I don’t want to see
the day or listen
to its violence,
I plant flowers in
dark corners,
I plant flowers where
the old ones have
passed sway,
I know there is a
reason for soft music,
I welcome the gentle
waves of consolation,
I hear poetry in the
slow movement of time …
Clay.M