I find myself able to see a future of love

where sustainability accompanies

wanton abandon.

Where growing old in the company of one

who loves to touch my sex as

anointing a pleasure of wonderful

treasure becomes a life of leisurely

creativity and art; of marvello-

us endeavour: you and me together.


And yet movement and growth

accompanies my present:

and I see there is a time and place for

everything where circum-


and cir-


ference circle us like universal hugs.


And the love I spent my unwhole life

attending in sacrifice,

and the pain I caused as

a result of such dissipating atten-

dance, which is – even so –

a responsibility I shall never ren-

ounce, nor

an ownership I can ever deny in the future,

does now begin to allow me to express my

love for the kind of

love that touches sex and anoints

my soul, and makes me feel whole

through the love of a woman who loved

me so hole I shall never regret nor forget

the good feeling of suddenly discovering

I was not to be judged, and in the absence

of such judgment,

of casual

judgement too, I rediscover the circles²

I’ve searched after

all my life.


Love is forever.

But also for everyone.

And if I choose to love you in the anteroom

and living-room and cooking-room and

wine-room and bathing-room and loving-room

where space is no race any longer

my love,

and love is no time at all, any more my love – and

this is of trust, of comprehension and

musky sexual understanding, understating

(however much expressed) the true depth

and wisdom of the love we excess –

then it is never because I have the permission of

another: it is only and precisely because I have the

permission you had every right

to withhold and as I beheld a mistake

on my part from beginning – and even as holding

my sex in your lips

and your mouth and your tongue and your hands

and your hole and your soul is all I have ever

dreamt of, my love, in nights of solitary and sole

sadness and ejection.

For I am a man of hugs and touchings and

sexual nothings and thoughts and sounds and

scents that assail my sense of wellbeing

in ways I can never explain to anyone

but you, my love; and no one but you …

… will understand.


* I discovered last night, in a book of collected war poems I have, a piece of paper with the following poem written on it.  It chimes and resonates so much with me today, that I really did feel I had to share it with you.  It’s by a poet called Vernon Scannell, and the title is “Incendiary”.

My ill-fated life, I no longer want to be ill-fated any more.  I just want that one warm kiss to make me right again.  And with the kiss I give in return, to right everything I wronged.


That one small boy with a face like pallid cheese
And burnt-out little eyes could make a blaze
As brazen, fierce and huge, as red and gold
And zany yellow as the one that spoiled
Three thousand guineas’ worth of property
And crops at Godwin’s Farm on Saturday
Is frightening—as fact and metaphor:
An ordinary match intended for
The lighting of a pipe or kitchen fire
Misused may set a whole menagerie
Of flame-fanged tigers roaring hungrily.
And frightening, too, that one small boy should set
The sky on fire and choke the stars to heat
Such skinny limbs and such a little heart
Which would have been content with one warm kiss
Had there been anyone to offer this.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s