Playing with an idea


The embers of you
Memories still burning
Few but reaching far
Into the evening dark

        ...............


Sparks falling with snowflakes
On my lap


        ..............


Sparks falling on my lap
It's cold, they skip off
Leaving snowflakes


         .............


Embers pip and fizz
I drip tears on them
Seeing snowflakes

          ..............



Charcoal blanketed by snow
Last winter's fire


         ..............


Snow blankets charcoal
Embers slowly disappear
Last winter's sex


         ..............


Last time I saw you
You shed tears like snowflakes
Melting slowly down the window
Today I see you playing
Out with the boys, wanted


        ...............



Growth like a fire stoked
Roaring in adolescence and young adulthood
Peaking in self-belief and prowess
To fall again and plateau in calm refrain
And then the fizzing and spitting
Flakes of white fall
Covering what once was wild abandon
Now becoming wild wet pips
That flop the final heat
Into the eyes of cross-legged youth
Drinking and thinking of what can be
A new flame to blaze
And if one were to see it all
Like I do now in my mind's eye
Pips of yellow would spark in your eyes
And descend with the white snowflakes
Somehow falling inside your ribcage
And you'd be like Adam
Somehow chosen to be the forming substance
Of something unique and real
And beyond the world of substace
A human existence spunked by the ethereal


18.02.14

Dog

I fell in love with your insanity today
Barking like a deranged lunatic
Glorious moon could be shining
But you are so sensitive inside
Easily won over to our gentle poise
Wagging your tail in ecstasy

26.02.14

 Last time

Last time I saw you
You shed tears like snowflakes
Melting slowly down the window,
Today I see you playing
Out with the boys, wanted

Walking Out On Cornish Coastlines

I miss the soaring heart of 'travel', conjured in one word, like a ball of wonderment and release from the existential cage.  Finally, me and my backpack, walking up paths of solitude - like salve to my suppressed wounds.  To walk together is necessary.  To walk alone is glorious.  Circling eagles, in their pain, hungry on cold winter mornings, yearning for flesh - they paint patterns on my sky.

Friendship stays me and a tension is built between their love and my passion for exuberant expenditure in ravenous madness on holy mountains.  Together a potent balm is made, like the rush of blood blotting out the agonies of cold and loneliness.  Why sit calm and stay, when in madness I live on the rooftop of the world.

Glowing orange smiles beckon to me in this bulb from from which I flower ecstasies.  Ah, all the world is put down.  Your work.  Your craft.  Your crafted kindness working on me.  So nice and lovely and soothing - and necessary - sapping the virility of me after a while.  And I ask leave of you for a moment, to skip, and piss on rocks and muse with dandelions about Plato and Nietzsche.  Both are necessary.  Your fingers.  Your hair.  The sunset.  My passion to beat the dirt track and slip on loose rock, just for the heck of it, and scramble up a bit, and laugh with the boy I once was.  To holler with seagulls. 

If youth was eternal I'd smoke a cigarette and ponder the perplexity of 'being', looking down at lapping shorelines, like the curves of fingerprints moving to the rhythms of life.  And I would think of you there, on my grassy granite, held in the arms of now, touched by your kindness still reaching out to me, and energizing me to live alone for this moment, looking down on Cornish flowers and looking forward to the ruddy Cornish smiles down at the tea and scone shop. 

NEVER

I'll never be your someone, your puppet
Stringed along for selfish "love"
Clasped in your pocket, distorted in bed
By chains of love and slavery

I've read too much of poetry
To succumb to the drudgery of money
And petty games of gallantry
Go find your gold-toothed gentry!

I'll never be your obedient one
Enough that you could fuck me
Or ask, how high to jump dear
Nor be your dressed dummy

I've seen too much abandonment
To hold it all in one pot dear
I'll splurge it for one pop there
On some bus all cramped, no care

I'll never be with you dear
I fear you will not see me
As I pass you by, dirt in hair
I've lost touch with your society

I've seen how they pat and prattle
Kiss together in the saddle
I'll never have your touch dear
Forsaking cotton for your skin


07.08.13

To Swish

I used to swish and swosh with you
In mire, like pigs we aspired
To lick the dirt from screams
Desert the mean dying weens

What fun I had then, free... in Kerouac's dreams
No burden of the thinking man
No duty to my fellow woman

Just songs, poetry, thoughts with booze
The shackles shaken with busted moves
And curvacious ladies' ooze

Always though towards some realm
Ideas like sap sucked up the elm
How long can you go on delaying?
The flower must blossom, unless
You poison it with L & M and rum


23.07.13

WOMAN 2

Woman, your comely smile, your style
Your bum protruding, your brooding
Your sway, your seizing the day
Your grace, your face, your lace draped, or slung 
Your coy unfaked, unmeditated laugh
Your craft, and graft, your unabashed mind
You're Kind, you're fine, delineate the line
May I seize you today and make you mine

26.09.13

Dissipation

Nothing after you
Idealized soul and goddess
Of pagan beauty

Flexed muscles of you
Surge in me
The current of loveliness
Stirred in me

Your form like Venus
After you meaninglessness
I sit, waiting for my gods

Tell me what to do
Have you left me
After that climax of years
After I've tasted that honey

I would find another love
To get excited with
But no such carnality stirs

Should I renounce lust after you
Nothing again to come close
Should I seek the Buddha now
Some internal eternal truth

The dissipation of the self
No longer one in you

04.08.13

This is not England

Not far off England - rainy morning of drip and cockerel chuckle, sipping coffee, wondering where the exoticism went.  Then monks glowing orange, like shooting stars, stride across my vision, holding umbrellas, all serious and devout, or longing - who knows what goes on in their minds?

I feel quite good after a night of light drinking - thinking - after some light arguing. Even a light supper of sweet coconut souped noodles and chicken - Hmm, I eat the sister of the one who wakes me - always the little kick in the gut to keep me going - inebriated buffoonery, verbal jousting with the blunted tongue of drunkenness - blunt and unskilled but for learned patterns in past wakefulness.

I think I need a love affair as I sit here on the step - an Aka tribeswoman, perhaps, all warm and treacle-like, plump cheeks and radiant smile, tongue ululating and oscillating, an instrument of song lulling and luring me, gentle ropes to draw me in and then snatch tight.

I would do your bidding for some romance - to enter into your dark mysterious world, black and lovely, us in our hole of communion, dirty and close to the earth. The smell of soil and rotting - fermented leaf.

I would dig your vegetable patch, brush your hair, blow on your neck, caress the strain of the day from you.  We would tend to our duties.  I would learn your noises - you mine - and we would laugh.  Exoticism you are not all bad - mysteries and blindfolds - the slow revelation of two souls -  like a slow boat to China.

Extending exoticism - rainy morning, pitter patter, laughter, dutiful men and women in PVC ponchos, umbrellas and flip-flops, purr of motorbikes, and the stamp and thud of the making of papaya salad beneath canvas, a stone's kick from the splatter of traffic and the heavenly precipitation, and the young woman's giggle at the wetness of her life, and my thoughts upon the wetness of mine, here upon the step, as I try to spark the exotic with coffee and a morose stillness.