Something more
When you kiss me,
the soundtrack to my life
fails and skips
like words and heartbeats.
Pinch me, quick!
Fingers crossed I don’t wake up…
A new flame
It wasn’t the best of rests,
but it was the sweetest night of sleeplessness.
We laid through
dark, dawn and day,
dizzy with kisses.
In her dressing gown and slippers,
she made for the kitchen
to make me buttered toast and tea.
I stood
beside
and kindled her smile.
Coins and Kisses
I
won’t
loan these
words, interest-free,
repayment guarantee,
until my heart balance reads well above
the red,
instead
of leeching from my overdraft;
fruitless sprees,
falling from my moneytree.
Not by label nor declaration
V What are we now?
C Too soon, too soon.
These hands, these lips,
they’ve barely met.
V As have our bodies;
bare on bare,
C our tangled hair,
V our tongues and teeth
that nibbled as we writhed
beneath.
C Hush now! Don’t speak so loud,
don’t talk so proud
or boast of me.
V Then what can I say?
How do I refer to you and I
if not by label or declaration?
C We’ll find another way
to say
those words...
V No common phrase or poet’s line
could ever serve as replacement.
C We know those words should not be said,
at least, not yet.
V But our vocabulary
falls
somewhat short
of where we’ve come to be.
C Don’t think so loud
or walk so proud.
V Then answer me,
what are we now?
C Words-
V fail you.
Now only kisses come from your lips
where once you dared to utter-
C but never that!
V True, but close.
C It cannot be.
V Too soon?
C Too soon.
These lips, those words,
they’ve barely met.
V But bare on bare
they’ve tasted more.
C So what are we now?
V We’re everything,
C but not by label
V nor by declaration.
C We’ll go about our every day,
V we’ll act as if it all were true
C and we’ll find a safer way
to say
I love you.Little red car
Black on black, the crystal sheet
slipped gently
from the naked road, fell
wet upon her tarmac skin
as morning spilled
and tumbled in.
Warm hands of colour touch the scene;
a red-breasted bird,
a rusty-red car
and, all the while, my redder side pines
for red on red and the cotton sheet
where my naked love still lies asleep.
The draft
This is a connoisseur’s world,
a society with a bitter tongue
that has no taste for romance.
This is an editor’s world,
with a ring in its nose and a red disposition
to charge at the cape of emotion.
It’s alright, I understand,
that anvil round your neck prevents you;
forged by a blacksmith who never learnt to love.
This is a foreign world;
these words are not of your language.
That guy
I’m that guy
who hogs the four-seat table,
with his pad n’ pen,
looking completely outta place…
coffee was a bad choice.
2Even the Christmas tree
leans in for a stare,
but when I go to meet it
eye-to-spine
it whistles and blinks at an awkwardly rapid pace.
He just wishes
he was as cool as me,
droppin’ lines
insteada spines.
Come January, you’re spent.
i.n.s.a.t.i.a.b.l.e.
I’m hungry, but not for
nicotine, caffeine,
solvents or ecstasy;
addictions of the physical,
their prurience envelops and
infects,
as kisses do,
but nothing’s quite as sweet as
lust and
every day I rot and rust.
A gambling man
Enter now the panic ponder!
These trees of green, orange or no leaves at all,
are like me; undecided.
Am I Summer? Autumn? Winter?
Cos I’m far from being spring,
with birds of a feather at it like rabbits,
whereas I’ve no beak or bunny to speak of.
But my money’s on Epiphany,
my three-legged pony at 52-1.
Slim chance!
Which is, ironically,
3-1.
Likewise, I’ll fly out of the trap,
grabbing my opportunity by the reigns,
or the mane…
or tail…
only then to be drawn through the rocky streets of education;
the forgotten purpose.
Never, never, and once denied
No matter how you may persist,
I’m once denied but never twice,
you’ll never kiss these dusty lips.
Though sigh and swoon have gone amiss,
your own entails too great a price,
no matter how you may persist.
You once denied; with silence hissed
that words weren’t able to suffice.
You’ll never kiss these dusty lips.
Your chill desire rolls in like mist,
but mine you cannot turn to ice,
no matter how you may persist.
Your feigned surrender can’t resist,
but I will never feel enticed.
You’ll never kiss these dusty lips.
You smile whilst clenching both your fists,
but I won’t welcome sacrifice.
No matter how you may persist
you’ll never kiss these dusty lips.
Dragon
“I specialise in madness.” He said,
leaning back and forth in the rocking-chair,
proudly puffing from his large cigar
who’s smoke whipped through the air
like the tail of a ghostly dragon.
And can we deny him?
Nay! For it is he that rocks
n’ rolls the ghostly billows from his toothy lair,
and talks of madness.
“But I,” said I,
“I can engage in madness too!”
He frowned awhile, then turned to face me,
blew a mighty plume towards me.
And I watched as the wafting dragon breathed a fiery kiss
and I burned, burned, burned
in the madness of its love.
Aenigma (III)
Relight my love for life
and offer me your wrong that’s right,
for suns can’t shine without their sin.
In truth the flame shall never die.
Envelope me and burn the night.
The riddle lies somewhere within;
one four four one and one stroke in.
It takes two
Had roses never drawn their thorns,
like laddered steps of bloody swords,
the dogs would eat just as they please;
insatiable, voracious greed.
But had roses never been so bold,
like diamonds, sat on wheels of gold,
the crows would spare their glistening eyes;
for beauties dare what they despise.
Throwing in the towel
A restless soul makes light of time
when flurried thoughts make dark of mind,
and held these lips forever be
till parting words find liberty.
The blind surreal is deaf and dumb
to every note my words have sung,
and when but silence meets my ears
this fools succumbs to all his fears.
Come dawn, come dusk, come midday sun,
I dither and dather ‘till all’s been done.
Pray tell me no, if that be true,
for assumption will no longer do.
There’s room for two
As of late, I have found, when the sun has gone down,
I dither and dather with the bats and the owls.
Then through reason alone, since I care not for sleeping,
I take to my bed and soften my breathing.
And I’m wondering if you were sleeping beside me,
if your own eyes were closed so sweet and divinely,
I’d find myself better inclined towards sleep,
cos these eyelids ain’t heavy and this midnight won’t keep.
With both of my eyes on the gap in the curtains,
I finally drift off to the sound of birds chirpin’.
So when daylight crawls in, just give me a warning,
cos it’s your voice that helps me get up in the morning.
Remedy
Commence the dance of bloom and blossom,
a spring in every step.
The fall of yesteryear forgotten,
those orange tears were laid to rest
where rotting memories shall reside;
the compost of the mind.
I long for days I can’t remember,
when fair was fair and fair the weather.
But now the trees stand nakedly
and wilting to their tapered dream.
Come blossom dance, help me forget,
with Spring in every step.
Rider
Swift as a breath drawn in quick cos of fear,
light as if winged with a breeze,
sharp as the path, created by He;
the diamond-cut rider.
No swifter, no lighter,
no sharper a rider than He.
Born like the sunrise beyond the horizon,
lives like a comet in flight,
journeys the worlds, no place left unseen.
The all-knowing rider.
No purer, no greater,
no wiser a rider than He.
Swift as a breath beyond the horizon,
lives as if winged with a breeze,
sharp as the path, no place left unseen;
no purer, no lighter.
Born like the sunrise drawn in quick cos of fear,
light like a comet in flight,
journeys the worlds, created by He;
no swifter, no greater,
no sharper, no wiser,
no more knowing or free;
the diamond-cut rider is He.
Beneath the smile
Fall on me or cut right through me,
smile at me or try to show me
what it is you have to hide.
Confide in me, you telling eyes.
Enlighten me or puzzle me,
engage with me or punish me.
I only know what I have heard;
be straight with me, you riddled words.
Reach for me, let go of me,
be kind to me or cruel to me.
I fear I’ll never understand
the truth behind those shaking hands.
Arriving home
The cobbled path, my path to home,
the pitter-pat of rain on stone,
the knotted door, the worn-out brass,
the loggy thump, the denting rasp.
The soggy mat, inside at last,
the beaten windows, rain on glass,
the water boiled, the gentle fire,
the padded chair will host retire.
The mâchéd news, words laced with rain;
at least the sport has gone unscathed.
The Grandfather’s Grandfather’s Grandfather’s clock;
past resonates through tick n’ tock.
And so I give you my evening scene:
a man, his house n’ a cup of tea.
The steamy sweetness warms my heart,
and, as evening fades, my thoughts depart.