Give me a dark room
with a seductive view
of this smoky city,
let me hear the soft
blue jazz spill from your
open window, let me
watch as you move so
slowly through the
naked light, let me
question your intimacy.
Is there a sadness in your
voice, a loneliness like mine,
can I see your complete
intangible beauty before
I close these tired eyes.
I will hold out my hand
for the crumbs of your
love, your confession
will be sweet and painfully
pure, your sexuality
a portrait of god,
your language will be
scattered pieces of truth,
your war a fierce illusion of
strength, your poetry so
pure so perfectly unique,
your beauty so effortlessly
complete …
Clay.M

Now that you have
disappeared into the
mist, now the distance
between us has become
severe, now the rain falls
on the old tin roof and the
light from the moon is honest.
Deep blue shadows swallow
the room as the warm breath
of Hope Sandoval whispers
so softly in my ears, I drift
away into a delicate world,
a world where my mind can
melt into a million lonely stars …
Clay.M

Snow is falling
window cold
to the touch

She is half my age
wearing nothing
but a crimson ribbon

Her foreign tongue
cartwheels between
broken English
and an old gypsy song

Her skin shines
like silk
by the fire light

She stands
hands pressed
against the glass

Eating chocolate
from an unpronounceable
Swedish village

I bath within
her beauty
especially
from behind …
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

It’s raining in Prague
I’m in a cafe on the
outskirts of the old city
if you can’t find the truth here
you’ve been living a lie
the street walkers
the grim dark sky
the pool hall hustlers
the jazz clubs blue smoke
black umbrellas like dead crows
Hemingway drunk on a red tram
A girl stands out in the rain …
Clay.M

Let us meet at the
lonely church that
sleeps upon the hill
where the shepherds
poetry is unwritten
where the cattle bells
sound like wind chimes
we will watch the sunset
burn into the sea
we will let our hearts
refuse to suffer
we will spend our
days here
we will fill our eyes
with broken pictures
we will understand
why the mountains
never ask for
forgiveness
let us meet where the
slow movement of time
avoids the sting of
moving on ...
Clay.M

I’m in a late night bar
in the big city
only the sound of
Johnny Hartman on
a background radio
and thoughts of her
keep me here
through a subtle hint
of pure blue I can
almost feel the
distant neon glow
the shadows dance
across the room like
black angels the wind
whispers through an
open widow like a
ghostly stranger
the features of her face
are captured within
the silhouette of
a perfect grey
the twisting smoke
curls from her fingers
from her lips drift
a thousand sorrows
she walks past me
with tremendous style
she walks past me
close enough to touch …
Clay.M

You left in a
search for truth
you left clean
without a trace
traveling further
into an endless
dream
your collection
of memories
exploding in a
sunburnt sky
with so many miles
between us now
I wonder how
you have changed
I hope you will
remember me when
you finally make it
to the coast
sincerely …
Clay.M

I’ve seen your kind
you sit in dark corners
of the cafe
scribbling on napkins
humming old blues tunes
you look up then look away
with graceful awkwardness
I’ve seen your kind
from time to time …
Clay.M

I am a writer
I write novels
I have no time
for silly poetry
she said
her eyes were a
shallow blue
her face was
pretty although
failed to show
expressions of
sincerity
her skin was
lightly tanned
her legs
flawlessly slender
her hands were
manicured
cold and lifeless
just like her writing …
Clay.M

When the sky is
dressed in midnight stars
and my mind is heavy
with questions
I let these tiny dreams
spill between the blinking
lights of the city
I know words sound
better at night
when the silent stars
cloud the sky of every
lonely hunter
I read the old poets
the teachers of
sorrowful things
I know she is here
I see her smile through
the dusty light
I am high enough
to see the ugly
side of heaven
I am high enough to
feel insignificant
and if I happen to fall
from this great height
how soon will I be
forgotten …
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

I am somewhere
in the distance
in that place you can
no longer reach
I watch the dust dance
in a stream of
yellow light
as the shadows shift
they become obsolete
like tiny deaths
I wish I could learn to
laugh again like
mad children
I wish I could whisper
the pleasant dreams of
fallen angels
as the moon hangs in
half light
there is a sadness in
your voice a loneliness
like mine
from your lips drift
a thousand sorrows
maybe if we close our
eyes the world won’t
seem so sad
we will meet beneath
the covers of
untouchable love
we will make our way
to the wild coast
looking out across
the endless mad ocean
we will watch the
ghosts rising like smoke
above the angry waves
we will hear the heavy
breath of an angry god
and if I hold your hand
without a single word
do not be alarmed by
my awkwardness
I can not compete with
the poetry of waves …
Clay.M

I walk upon the earth
I pretend that I own it,
I see an army of ants
attacking a Mantis,
I watch it accept defeat,
it is silent in its prayer,
it is crippled in its faith,
my empathy is tested,
I whisper to its god,
give it a quick death!
but its god does not listen
it is slow and torturous,
I hold my breath as the
Mantis weeps. I see the
last leaf fall from a
winter Wisteria it is
naked and boney, it has
become ugly
in its nature …
Clay.M

May this room
bring you the
light of creativity
may the poetry
of your journey
be nothing short
of extraordinary
travel lightly
in the footsteps
of wonderment …
Clay.M

Before the sun rises
I will step outside to
drink my tea with the
jasmine and the rose
I will listen to the moon
tell its stories of
far away cities
and how it looks more
beautiful in the desert
I will reconstruct this
collision of thoughts
into something that
resembles poetry
I will conclude with
a sigh and a whisper
I am nothing but dust
in the company of nature …
Clay.M

I’m okay in here
you know?
she said
I’m writing my first novel
I get inspiration being
in a place like this
the drunks the ******
the junkies
all the lost and lonely are
washed in like rats from
the ***** city streets
she kept talking and I
kept listening
she was interesting
she had a cute lisp
and her legs where long
the lazy light caught
the curve of her smile
there were moments of silence
when she would write things down
take a sip of her drink
or to light a cigarette -
in this tortured place
she was like an angel
hope was still in her eyes
her skin had a healthy glow
she was unbroken by the world …
Clay.M

If you want -
you can find them here
all those out of shape
poets and writers,
stooping to ungodly
behaviour, drinking
with demons, wrestling
with angels, scrounging
for words on broken tables
trying to make them fit,
words like - honesty - beauty,
- *** - hunger - words that hold
you for a while then let you
slip - unsatisfied. There is a
sickness in this line of work
an inexcusable existence,
a drowning madness,
a longing that leaves you
feeling unqualified. If you
want - you can find them
here, within these hours that
never sleep. Now I know
why Hemingway wrote
standing up …
Clay.M

When the street lights
have gone out
and most people are asleep
all wrapped up tight in their
delicate dreaming
a fallen angel brings me
fragile and broken words
aren’t they beautiful
she whispers
don’t show them
to anyone
if you do they will see
who you really are
they will know
every little secret
that you keep hidden
in your perfect silence
they will know that
you’re one of the kind ones
the wolves will know
your weakness …
Clay.M

Can I hold your
attention for no
longer than a minute,
can I feel the sharpness
of its edge the dizziness
of its centre, can I tell it
a little poem maybe try
and make it think, you
can have it back now,
it has become restless,
there is boredom in
its breath, I guess there
was a moment when I
thought it was my own …
Clay.M

I step outside
I stand beneath
the cold blue stars
I listen to my
own heart beating
I feel it pound the
breath of my love
the night air brings
a familiar sting
there are no corners
in this sacred space
I study the movement
of anxious leaves
as they desperately
hold on to the
midnight trees
they allow me to
believe in this solitude
like it’s some kind of truth
something spiritual
something intangible
as the sleeping flowers
lean towards tomorrow
as the waves of emotion
recede into the shadows
sorrow is no longer
a stranger …
Clay.M

I feel safe here
above the clouds
with my small collection
of shimmering stars
all the ghosts
look like angels
they tell me the
****** details of their
forbidden lust and
how they float just
above the violent sea to
feel the torture of its touch
I am happy in this space
with my poetry and my
confused desire
by your silence
I know that you are near …
Clay.M

I have been around
long enough to know
that the world is unwell,
and in the shade of an
ugly grey I have seen
high buildings holding
the warmth of the sun,
I have seen birds
trying to be birds in the
middle of dead cities,
I have seen places
that have grown tired
of the sound of gunfire,
and as the playgrounds
remain silent within the
fields of sleeping rust,
I will listen to these
walls as they call me a
stranger, I will leave
with a hundred heavy
dreams in my cart,
I will search amongst
the ruined cities for
something good, I will
continue to wander …
Clay.M

It’s 3am again,
the old guy next door
turns his radio on,
Barber cuts through
the silence with every
tortured string, he types
his poetry until the paper
walls weep, I listen to the
rhythm of the keys as the
gentle breeze makes the
curtains dance with the
sad symphony, as the
early morning sun throws
its lonely shadows onto
the pure white sheets
I think of war and peace …
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

Tonight when the
wild flowers scream
at the matador moon
and the Bull dies alone
amongst black poppies
young girls will stand
in front of mirrors
with sad china doll smiles
wishing they were thinner
tattoos of broken hearts
on the edge of their hips
she only shivers
when she is touched
in that special place
she only tells you this
when she is lonely
the stars fade away
like old love letters
intangible no longer loved
and middle aged men
are always threatening
you with leaving
perhaps to a city like Paris
where the women know
how to please them
the night is restless
like a thousand
Butterflies in Spring
and in that dark room  
you are still sleeping
like something forgotten
like a silhouette of stone...
Clay.M

I don’t need this
anymore than you do
I’ve taken all that I
can hold
all that I could
hope for
I wish that I could
breathe through
all this city smoke
all these broken hearts
all these silent stars
all these neon lights
shining so lonely and
blue just for you
now I’m tired of the lies
and I’m tired of the truth
now everything golden
has gone
I don’t believe this
even though it’s true
I saw you smile and it
made me smile too
now I curse all the rain
and all the flowers
that bloom
tell me why do they
die so soon
now I’m tired of
the lies
and I’m tired of
the truth
now everything
golden has gone …
Clay.M

You can
deactivate your mind
you can numb your senses
you can plant flowers
where the weeds have died
you can look out across
your summer vines
and smile at the good work
your hands have done
but deep down you know
that the sun will turn to butter
and will no longer be able to
push away the heavy rain
you begin to listen to the
ugly cry of the black crow
and you see the wings of
small birds becoming tired-
tired of fighting against
the angry wind
you sit down and you feel sad
and it is your sadness-
you own it-
you take a deep breath
you hold it for a while
you let it go
you feel happy again
happy that you are
still able to feel...
Clay.M

I am writing to you from a
park bench in Amsterdam
there is a gentle breeze
of rest-fullness
the cherry trees are in
full bloom
I look for you
in every pretty face
I look for you in the
mannerisms of strangers
I look for you in the
architecture of amazement
I think of you
between the sidewalk
and every step
I hold you in my mind
like a memory of
something precious
I almost found you as the
sun set the sky on fire
in Barcelona
but you know
almost is never sweet
I will find you
before I unveil this
madness of my wandering
I miss you
even when I sleep …
Clay.M

As I search this anxious city for
something pure something good
I carry a hundred heavy dreams
I don’t mind when the sadness hits
see I’ve been drinking with the poets
they follow me down every street
I rest beneath the crayon blue sky
I see my heroes scratching their
bellies behind the sun
I see the threads of my mothers
summer dress I see the ghost of her
flying like a painted bird
I try to hold her like a secret
I untangle this mind of loose strings
maybe if I remain silent I’ll become
obsolete maybe if I write words that
are worth remembering I’ll feel complete
I listen to the wind whispering apologies
maybe they can sell my dreams in the
market place with the cattle and the
rattling of chains I think about quite rooms with naked shadows in every lonely corner I think about small birds crying out for the crumbs of your love and if you can hear me I wish that you knew me
when I was still kind …
Clay.M

Some days don't
want to be loved
as the clouds move
with the dead of grey
my mind shifts within
a mist of questions
they are written across
the night sky between
the stars and my
blinking eyes in those
dark and lonely spaces
of the heart
some days don't
want to be loved
with the last slice of light
I'll feel the
sharpness of its edge
I'll drink wine with the
anxious gods and the
ghostly strangers in this
mirror of memories
I’ll find words that are
worth remembering …
Clay.M

When my mind starts
to wander and my eyes
refuse to blink, I travel
down the endless road
of a thousand dead poets,
I hold onto every blue note,
spilling ink across an indigo
sky, give me soft jazz that
complements the rain,
give me a conversation with
beauty that makes me blush.
Maybe we should just leave
she said, drive for miles into
the heart of the bleeding sun,
throw our dead love into the
defeated sea, get tattooed by
insane gypsies with missing teeth!
sleep beneath the shooting stars
to the sound of vicious violins!
we can change our names to
something unpronounceable,
become spontaneous,
become obsolete …
Clay.M

I want to walk
through a Japanese
water garden in spring
I want to hold your
attention close to my
family of fears
I want Heather Nova
to sing for me in a room
on the island of Hydra
I want to collapse in the
arms of pleasant things
I want my voice to be
faithfully strong
I want to hear your stories
without hesitation
I know I don’t sound
overly unique
but nobody wants a
promise when it’s broken
or poetry that is left
incomplete …
Clay.M

Now that you are here
with your bracelets and
your chains, now that you
are here with your gypsy
cards and your secret charts,
now that you are here with
your waves of midnight hair
and collection of fallen stars.
I have seen a carnival of
******, I have seen corridors
of wasted lives. Now I hide
in the mountains with my
hatred and my hunting knife,
now I hide in the mountains
with my wild eyes and my
books about the wilderness …
Clay.M

Your poetry is so
pure so unique
you never let
sadness stand
in your way
you hold onto hope
like it means something
I want to break into
your golden thoughts
where honesty and
your secrets meet
your words hide
between the lips of
a lovers kiss
there is blackness
across the sky
I underline the stories
that fill your eyes
everything moves
away eventually
and you know how
I hate goodbyes …
Clay.M

I was on a train from
Paris to Amsterdam
and with an empty page
a sad smile and a pen
she was looking out
the window across
the apple green fields and
into the valleys of cobbled
villages and ****** churches
and as the dead air of Paris
was leaving my mind
I began to read the reflection
of questions in her eyes
I wanted to tell her what
she already knew
that the answers are in
the rhythm of the rails
and to only underline
the words that matter ...
Clay.M

Some days
I stare at the sun
I study its minor
imperfections
I see the beauty
of its scars
I feel the depth
of its existence
some days
I like being sad
I paint my heart
in the darkest blue
I welcome sorrow
I hold it in my chest
like a deep breath
like imperfect poetry
I find a quiet place
far away from the
heavy machinery
and the screech
of grinding wheels
I embrace isolation
I choose to call her
my closest friend …
Clay.M

I saw you today
your red scarf cutting through
the morning mist
your long black dress
sweeping the city streets
you were holding a jazz album
like a book of old poems
you crossed the road
with rhythm in your step
I saw you today …
Clay.M

I step outside
to greet the day
my arms stretched out
across a lemon field
I breathe the spring
air into my lungs
filling up and letting go
I listen to the
symphony of birds
I watch the butterfly’s
dance with the dandelions
as my eyes blink in the
yellow light
I keep my precious things
caged within my chest
as my mind becomes clear
and the wind has grown tired
I am without prejudice
my arms are free to move
my legs are able to run
I catch my breath
I chase these words
I call it poetry
it is here that I write
it is here that I am
immune to the
sickness of the world …
Clay.M

Someday I will find
a magic mountain,
and I will stay with
one million moths
rebelling against the
light, my wanderlust
will be completely
satisfied, the nova will
sustain its sublime
intensity, I will walk
with my mind swirling
in majestic mystery,
every thought, every
action will be spontaneous!
and it will be absolutely
splendid in every category.
Someday I will find a
magic mountain, I will
drink wine with the gods
and we will smile for eternity …
Clay.M

I walk upon this
tragic earth, and
as my bones grow
weary, I rest beneath
a fig tree, I watch the sky
sacrifice another sun.
I listen to the wind sing
its songs of the mountains
and the sea and how the
soldiers and the sailors
are lost without their love.
I dream of mandolins and
the movement of clouds.
I dream of white villages
and genuine smiles. I feel
the distance between your
breath and mine. I continue
this search for authenticity,
I hear the fig tree whisper,
sleep now there is no need
to feel afraid …
Clay.M

I love the
sound of new
beginnings
the way it
echoes with
possibilities …
Clay.M

I am writing to you from a
park bench in Amsterdam
there is a gentle breeze
of rest-fullness
the cherry trees are in
full bloom
I look for you
in every pretty face
I look for you in the
mannerisms of strangers
I look for you in the
architecture of amazement
I think of you
between the sidewalk
and every step
I hold you in my mind
like a memory of
something precious
I almost found you as the
sun set the sky on fire
in Barcelona
but you know
almost is never sweet
I will find you
before I unveil this
madness of my wandering
I miss you
even when I sleep …
Clay.M

I found this poem
undressed in a
restless - evening
I listen to the whispers of
butterfly - wings
my questions are
confused
the stubborn moon
only answers in
dramatic - rhythms
why does my mind
always run back
to those mountains
so far from me
I am a foreigner here
a fragile thing
I heard you are
writing again
I heard your
voice has become so
beautifully - Innocent
I know that I
stood in your way…
Clay.M

No one wants to read
your pretty little poems
she said,
drink the **** yellow ink
from the cowards pen,
write about the early
morning ****** puking
in the gutters, drunks in
alleyways wrapped in
coffee stained news papers
snoring with the crack heads
and sewer rats, dreaming of
long legs and two dollar wine.
Give me music that makes me
cry, give me bombs on city streets
a young soldiers missing legs,
give me the sound of an insane
saxophone from forty stories high.
Give me death - lust - fire!
give me back the hum drum
rhythm of the beat poets -
for gods sake tell it how it is
give me the awful truth
after all that’s all there is …
Clay.M