poetry

Nudge me no more (it ain’t nice …)

He used to love the way she touched him without

really touching him: like when you see

a drop-dead beautiful to-die-for woman from

an incredible afar, and her enigmatic smile and her dark red lips

and her sips of sex slipped beneath laced-up skirt, swishing

lightly below awfully silken blouse, ready to be undone in some

lucky darkened room or other … and all of these things

like collected lockets of love, he used to love so much about her.

But now when she nudges him, it ain’t nice at all.

Now when she nudges him, it’s purely a means to get him to do

her something she refuses to take ownership for: turn up the

heating or turn down the volume or turn off the fan or

just fuck yourself solo because you make me quite ill,

only no one could ever ever take ownership for such a

terrible thought as this.

And if there was one thing that really pissed him out his

trolley, it was people who took it upon themselves to volley through

air and wind and tight breeze a teasing nudging of managing

behaviours: “If you want me to do something, just say it to my

fucking face!  And then,” he would respond, “I can actually

choose who to say no to …”

But the universe – his universe – really wasn’t that way, and rather

than peopled by people who might visibly fuck him alive, it was peopled by

people who refused to show their faces, and instead of sexy glances that

might glance off his soul, the only thing he ever knew

was the people who peopled his universe and flatly refused to hate him

in full view of the man he was and the man he’d become

and the man he now rejected he had to revert to.

And if freedom was to be a solitary confinement in a wider world

of loneliness, let freedom commence in its singular way: only do show

your faces, do accept your blame, do recognise that fame

is no guarantor of happiness any more.

And all he ever wanted to be was a man at least his children might

be proud of … a man they could admire some day for the

grander things he might once have done

in some different time.

And whilst he realised by now that his children were grand, his

saddest saddest thought lay in the lap of his spouse:

when life had called him to be a lion of sorts, a mouse is all he had

roared and scurried: and he knew he had failed her, and she was

no longer the woman she might one day have become,

if another life had ridden by and flitted by and allowed him the

pride and enjoyment of being the man

which he knew he could now never be, were he to remain in her lap.

Standard
poetry

Belief / Belive / Befree

If I could con-

template my sacrifice,

I would con-

template my sacrifice.

I would con-

template my disappearance

in trance-like state of

final igno-

miny tiny magicked me:

the incredible shrinking

reliving of relief.

But I see that now

I have no choice: not

Hobson’s at all – something

curiously different: almost as if

I’ve been managed into a

space I needed to realise I had

no choice at all

in this matter I describe,

observe and recall.

The choice isn’t who:

there never was any doubt.

The choice is the what: whether

to make a choice or not.  But

I cannot live my life in the

darkness of imminent

discovery: I live in free lands,

green lands, hilly mounds:

the mounds of your beautiful

selves which all draw me, a peaty

charcoal-like precision, every

morning I wake up

from my terrible slumbers: a coma

I’ve been in of grammatical

nature: no longer do I want to sleep

in this way

but live in our home and bring you

my love and kindness and

ingenuity on a tray which I’d

love you with – and sometimes be

afraid of, it’d be so

good a way of being

and seeing

and doing, my love: but most of

all, loving my love

that you are.

Standard
poetry

Hoo nose / Hoo new / Hoo wants me now

Hoo nose, when there’s so much to win

and so much to lose by not coming

first: someone comes first but

in love either way is as loving as

seconds and minutes and hours.

 

And hoo new, when there’re so many dots

to connect: I wish I were necking your

body right now: I wish I could touch your

hot flushes and rushes and touching

muches: I wish I could wake up with

your long body

along mine; and, strangely, heer you call

for me, and then heer your laugh

with me, and then heer you moan

because of what I do to

you and your beautiful, beauti-

filling body of love and life and living

and chivvying and laughter out loud

and proud battles to be-

come in my heart like me in you: your

soul and your body of love and

life and living:

the person you’ve always striven

to be: you are my example:

I shall never forget:

I can never forget:

I have never forgotten:

I never forget.

(And I even remember on Facebook

one day, a long time ago,

a weird time ago,

when the system informed

me your offspring playing games, as

offspring rightly do, that – of all the

people in the world they could

choose from – it was me

they’d least like to see in naked pose.

Do you feel the same now?  Is that

how it is?  Me, battered by time and

sadness gone wrong, and the whizzing past of

hope and means to live life

as life was meant to be lived …)

 

And hoo nose;

hoo new;

hoo wants me now?

Hoo wants a battered battle-scarred

wearisome man who once proudly

stood on the barricades of future –

brought home to wisdom and kindness

and ways of making humanity a reality

for all?

Hoo needs all that shit?

Hoo likes any more to like anything which

can’t be unliked at the touch

of a button?  A button I’d undo

rather than touch: first one, and

then another.  And a woman I’d undo: first her

mind, and then her blinding body: the love

she found in almost everyone she met: the

caustic wit: the gentleness all the

same: the whirling wisdoms of

a lifetime and more.

She lives beyond any person I’ve known: she

lives beyond the edge of this rock, so that

stopping and not falling is no

longer an option: you’re the only thing

I think about; the only thing

I’ve thought about; the only thing

I’ve dreamt about; the only person whose

door of love I’ve wanted to enter

and banter with

and chunter with

and wonder with.

The only person I ever want to

be with.

My dawning morning.

My darkening dusk.

The musk of your sex on my breath.

And the easy afternoon in kitchen

exchanged: a coffee shared, a book

discussed, a sofa spread out upon.

And in the midst of normal activity, a

glance leads to quite some other thought:

we both begin to idly touch the

other: the sex is not separate but a

part of the whole: I love your

whole, I love its darkness, I love

being in love

with you.

 

Standard