I find myself able to see a future of love
where sustainability accompanies
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-
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-
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,
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
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.