Monthly Archives: October 2011

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I’m going to be straightforward:


I love him more than words can say.

what can I make, or do

to act as finite proof?

what words will serve

to love him better

than I can

with my lips or hands?


drop in the ocean (& others)

and up till the last

I wouldn’t have known

that a dull pain was only a drop in the ocean

and grasping for kicks, was all that love was

and wishing,

an unfurnished flavour.

and up until now

my words were all sand in allusions through breaths,

coiled in fins, smoke and mirrors.

each thinner and gleaming,

like a mouthful of wax

in the crux of your brain,

in the dough of your hand.


in the nub.



it needn’t be like that.

I needn’t be a crack in the grand scheme of things,

or a plank in sinking ship.

I needn’t feel as though

I have to be reeling in some sorry sadness to

feel something.

cos some things – real things – aren’t cluttered

and brimming with misery,

but sometimes

it takes time before you see

how things can be




why is it you?

and how was I made blind?

and why was there none of that usual stuff –

exploding trumpets, cosmic fluffing?

fated fucking

meetings just like any other.

I saw you stretched against the night,

by rolling hills, in folding slats and glancing

off your shoulders

were the lights to make your backdrop.




I can’t sleep or wake for

thoughts forbidden

in them, you’re decked out and

fancy. free me,

lead me to some function

or another love who

won’t fulfil my longings

(wrong as they are and

parching my head of all sense)

unless you intend

to stick at it,

in which case, fill me

full of all thoughts of you

for my whole mind to thicken

with the more of you


18/07/11  –  12/10/11

Thoughts from a Bedroom at Night

I can’t lie here any more nor bask

in the glorious warmth of a guarded gaze.

My lights are not like daylight streaming

or the hazy glow of lying, dreaming

with a throbbing thought.

My fingers aren’t engaged to touch and feel or hit and press

My soul is not one linked to another

any more than eyes to a smell to a nose to a breath

And yet-



circa 03/2011


And so the day will come some day from now

when I’ll come visit your wife’s house.

Long after all our long goodbyes

and my last shameful stand and

deep outpouring all-consuming something

fails to take effect.

And after all the last drops drain,

all music faltered, fled from me;

a bar below par after all.

And after hours paced in work,

the ol’ copy and paste,

click, shift ‘n’ white light bled from me

all that was ever good in me.

So what you see is just a shadow of

the former me:

a plastic knife, a butter pat, two napkins

and four feet under the table.

“Some lovely spread!” Same idle chat.

Her family’s silverware, and after dinner

mince is what I’ll make of her

“Isn’t it funny to think I loved your husband?”

“Wow, how we’ve all changed.”

Well. Some of us stay the same, I guess.


circa 03/2011

Apart Remembered (& others)

I’ll wander if I’m wrong, but I think it was the light,

a happy light that shone all two-weeks-long

and trundled over countryside to feel

apart that’s missing.

In denser nights, two-clouded breath

seeks out to find the part that’s left behind,

still tuned for strumming.

But it’s here, in this clearing

all smeared in your colours,

the paint spans nearly a full torso, humming

and chanting a false incantation.

Sickened, I leave it

to those mawkish delusions

and go back to my bus in the country.


This too has its place (and place

my hand on it to prove it,

shift it to the right)

this hand, these lips and thighs

all out my jurisdiction,

so I slide

one book on top another,

make sure they’re aligned.


Thinking how, I never stop.

There’s a million ways, no-

more probably,

to ply the words and find the thoughts,

find myself in the right situation.

I’ve wound there, well enough, enough times.

But never perfect, no arm quite right,

no legs so tightly bound together

to make it seamless

so it seems like it’s a natural progression

from one thing to another. One things leads to

another, you know.

But no such chance arose.

I know it’s pointless

mulling over all those lost plans

but happiness stands between you and I, love.


Night Falls (& others)

Night falls. There’s a sturdy boned cap on my forehead,

while a chin rests up there and delivers sweet breaths.

2:00am and some stirring delivers me restless, dumb sighing

for a-touching and a touch filled with sleep.

Turn around, and I’m there- mouth on par to soft nipple-

Eros knows (god knows why) I’m felled, captive by this

one, who’s soft, and thick skinned at the same time

and blunt with a sharp word,

and testing my limits,

and stroking,

and prodding,

glanced into admitting,

until I’m quite ardent- all certain-

we’ll kiss.


I had some dream in orange foothills tall and wide,

of mountains and the sun’s swift set and rise in seconds.

Slumped unstable from a fence for this

and figured shapes to match my suiting.

Found it taller, hung, hunched over,

bent, all beauty, but wanting much.

Wanting works I’ve got no art for,

skills I can’t acquire, or

deriding my golden, once much-loved foothills,

to rile or gauge intent.

Come morning I’ll rise and burn ‘em down.

All that I could acquire,

all razed, the vast stumps bask as proof:

Upshot of a strange desire.


What a mockery I should be tangled,

swept round by delicious smells,

drowned in a dug-down clutched-tight duvet,

parched of all my senses.

Felled in the night

by a welcome intruder, who’d

do a little dance, sing a little song,

welcome my thoughts to imagine him naked or

shy from the first sign of touching.


It takes the cold wind, conjured heat, no light

to spell it out for you,

not to write some lines you’re meant to say,

or coax you,

‘place your fingers here and trace, now linger…’

(all that melts away in the face of it)

but to let you see

yourself melt down to a small pile,

left for a dead (heart) or toppled king,

only to find that same heart, sitting,

spilling out your sentiments; words

so much like your own that

your skin feels like splitting,

lurching forth open-armed welcoming love.

I’d die if embraced like that, so-long resisted…

in waking I’m thinking a part of me did.


I have nothing to say about this

any more

09/10/10  –  17/11/10

down a philtrum

can’t put my nose on the smell

like a finger down a philtrum, to and fro on cupid’s bow…

an indent so deep, to prove where you’re silenced by a Mal’akh, angelus

and just like those scriptures you’re all but forgotten

as deep as that pathway I’m silenced

stopped long short of saying how beautiful you are

or, what a waste of a brain in a mind self-disdainful

or my touch on a soul I can’t fathom

or rest, when it ‘sides in a kind so unsettled

wunderkind, one that’s settled so often for less.

less I step on the mark, I let hands do the talking

working fingers, unstopping a philtrum and flow

down my throat, sweet elixir, submission

and let the staunch fragrance combine with the smoke.




The paper, and the wood-ledge, chipped’s

wet-sodden with the old mixture

and no dusty thing remains

on the wrong side of the room.

Checked the lamp for plastered flies

I prise the glow stick from its place

still dull, not lit and un-resurrected

a testament to the thousand

gassed night-flies on the ground.

And down the hallway’s crusts, or carpet,

the much-loved sick-stain ritual encumbrance

I find myself willing some happy greeting,

a swivel of seat,

no naked dwelling.

Paused short in my fancy,

I realise it’s freezing,

turn the tap for a tea, fill the kettle


(it takes twice the time for the half cup that’s needed).

This room’s just a half-room

without you