Heal the sky, he says.
Heal my mind.
Those desperate, beautiful, medicated eyes swimming.
Behind smudged glass
Aching for a single, sharp view through the greasy pane.
Scared to break out
Scarred by past refraction
A lead-light spectrum of agony
Stitched together where hooks once
Injected piercing teeth.
The lure calls yet.
Heal the sky.
Heal my mind.
Bryson Thomas
Under the covers,
A sable universe,
Holds me
In subtle suspension,
Caught in a forever fall,
A vertiginous breath,
Beyond gravity,
Between feelings,
Expectations,
Pugnacious obligations.
Stars peer through stitch holes in the duvet,
Blinking in bemusement
At my arrested slide.
Still,
My mind,
Beyond such dark matters,
Finds peace
In the chaos.
Bryson Thomas
You are my safe place
My worn words are best place
My skin-prickling storm place
My bread in the air place
My oh-here-we-go place
My juice in a peach place
My crunch of dry leaves place
My rain on tin roofs place
My cat with the cream place
My un-tell a lie place
My brine in the tears place
My chest out to fear place
My share of a scare place
My reword the past place
My new things to do place
My glimpse of the later place
My there goes my breath place
And let’s go to that place
And come back to my place
And then go to your place
This whole town is our place
Forever is now place
Bryson Thomas
Some people make the world go ’round.
Others just sit and spin.
Bryson Thomas
Someone taped hair to a rocket,
It’s zinging through the room,
Shattering the speed of sound,
Blam!
Whoosh!
Scruffle!
Boom!
Exit stage left,
Enter stage right,
It’s a three stage rocket,
Scooting out of sight.
Air.
Floor.
Couch.
Door.
This object is in MOTION
And it’s filling ALL of space.
But whats that Houston?
A pointed nose.
Frozen.
There.
In place.
A tongue extends.
A scent portends
Across the lunar seas.
A rump touch down.
A whimper sounds.
Wet eyes projecting pleas…
And, yes. Control [sniff]
We can confirm [sniff sniff]
The moon IS made of cheese!
GULP!!!
Bryson Thomas
Three-am
My city is a musky mistress
Brooding on bedsheets
Scrunched and creased
By fitful repose
Jazz dreams of halcyon past
Speed-read behind neon flecked lids
High kicks, carriages
Top-hats and typewriters
Replayed at twice-speed
This night she rests
Office towers, her laddered tights
Bright thigh-skin shining through
She shifts in her sleep when
Cop sirens wolf whistle
As they crawl her curbs
I walk softly
And savour her beauty.
Bryson Thomas
We called it farm
The desert called it visitor
Cracked dirt
Red as a split lip, torn
By screams of thirst
Coughing dust
Plough furrowed coffin dust
On desiccated crops
Of sheep bones
Divine oracle
Of Christmas parched
Clouds, just rumpled refugees
Dragging wisp-haired kin
In procession across the sky
Tearless in search
Of more hopeful places
Bryson Thomas
Four foot and eleven inches of grit
Wearing violent red shoes.
Hijacking life
From the seat of a gold Honda Civic
Indigo boa held hostage for the ride.
Brahms plays on oblivious
From speakers
On the dash.
Old 33’s on BBC
As the browbeaten car blows one-twenty.
There is no rush of course.
But, of course
There’s a rush from rushing
You should know –
Short legs move faster
To keep up.
Bryson Thomas
Float and
Scrape,
Float and
Scrape,
The galvanized
Ghostly Boat
Is floating, scraping
Through
The tangled
Snare-root scaffold
Bracing mangroves
In digestive mire.
Draw
Release,
Draw
Release,
The mudflat
Draws and releases
Salty breaths
Twixt waves
Of tea-stained sea
That stretch and strive
To shade and hide
From ever-thirsting sun.
Come and
Quench,
Come and
Quench,
The comely, quenching
Leaves of
Mangrove trees
Sing siren song
Of waters fresh
Within the
Slurping snare
Embraced beneath.
Reach
And snatch,
Reach
And snatch,
War-worn fingers
With pig-hide skin
Reach and snatch
A papadam coloured
Carapace
As blue-purple
Pincers grasp
The air.
Bubble
And squeak,
Bubble
And squeak,
The cook pot
Bubbles and squeaks
The proof
That shin-swallowed legs
Are fast enough
As too-slow crab
Is too-quick gone…
A golden fleecing.
Bryson Thomas
They walk away
And yet, remain
With us imprisoned within,
And pain is our protection,
Loss, our consolation,
Sadness, our resource.
In our weakness,
We resent them
As we loved.
Bryson Thomas
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