poetry

Be troo / Be too / Be yoo

 

I was a sad little man in ambition and

fact.

I struggled to express myself in physical

form.

I did have goals and aims –

objectives quite clear.

But my mode of operation appeared

lackadaisically un

dear.  As if I didn’t care or know

what I was doing: yet I did, I promise

you.

My responsibility to offspring and

spouse weighed heavily on

my being.

My sense of in-

te-

gritty led me to struggle against

coffee-

plagued meet-ups which

meant me to abandon

them to their own devices and

gadgets and ameliorations of

superficial society.

But I couldn’t see this happen: I loved

them too much.

My prime directive, as if programmed

by corps, was to do what I could do

to lead them to the independence I knew

they could battle with and take

onboard ship-

wise as if embarking on high-

sea-

d ingenuity to different country and

continent.

And all I’ve ever desired for them

all is the independence I desired

for myself.

Does that make me a selfish being?

Does that make me self-

interested and un-

kindly in my winding road?

Or does it, maybe, allow me now

to see that winding road

goes else-

where the sacrifice no longer needs

making?

 

Yes, I want my clever duplicities but

still do wish to be troo.

I want my independence but

not from yoo.

And I want to be me in everything

I might, but never with yoo

out of my sight.

 

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
short short story

“… when an inside is outed (out of love and affection) …”

 

She was uncomfortable, so often, with the thoughts she had.  She thought she ought not to have them, for starters.  And that was bad.

For precisely the thoughts she had, they so often remained at the forefront of her beautiful mind … the whole day long, too; from dawning to dusk.  From the early morning when she opened her beautiful green eyes to the end of the evening – that time when, exactly when, the shadows of memory reflected in shady red wine would remind her of moments where lonely remains of love were the main (by now) desperately vultured carrion of her most inner hopes.

She wasn’t a morbid person by nature, either – let this be clear.  It’s just that the kind of life she’d been obliged to live had meant the very best of her being had been inhibited from showing itself to the outside world.

They say that what’s truly of value of any person out there is what hides inside the hider’s inside.  And so – through the loneliness imposed by the circumstance of confusion – she’d become a fairly professional hider of the inside she could’ve shared with others for most of her life, clearly lived more as a survivor than a living human being; clearly lived more as a now quietened soul of a humanity of the lukewarm.

She didn’t have less than others had, of course.  But she could’ve had far more: for precisely her inside was the most astonishingly wrought forging of ingenious and loving patterns that pattered like toddling feet in their innocence and gravity: she was such a gorgeous entity, too; the real crime was that no one had realised the reality in time.

Or maybe they had: maybe they’d said: maybe they’d told each other: maybe the grapevine had already spread the truth about her hider’s beautiful inside, and that reality it contained.

And so in truth, it was all she needed right then.  Some real living love and affection to out the inside that beautifully adorned the inside she’d hid from the man she had loved the entire section of her life she’d only survived (never lived, my love – believe me; never properly lived at all).

 

Standard
poetry

F{at.her}ho[od] / H[us.band]ship

 

Fatherhood was easy, a dod-

dle like Google, compared with the

ca[l]va{l}ry that is this rushing away

from clear routes and path-

ways which be-

witch and confuse: I know what

I’d do, everything being eq-

u-

al, and yet the es-

sence and sens-

abilities we con-

tain-

t within this i’m-

perfection I exhi-

bit right now, a tad and slight-

lying I run like a child to con-

template and wizard and run around

boldly.

Was I ever made of boldness?

Can resilience be used to describe the man

I’ve been?

Does strength of purpose inscribe the

love I’ve shown – or is weakness my final dis-

membered leg-

acy?

 

(And what about you?  Why remain so

si-

lent and borrowed – like second-

hand book?  We shook each other

so fab-

u-

loosely free of convention.  I need to hear

your voice this one day soon.  I need

to hear your voice of swoon-

in-

g-

ain-

fully gently tinged northern-

ess-

entials of lacy sauciness: as saucy

as heart-

y good food on the table, next

to salad chosen uncertainly that day

we braved CCTV: or, at least, that was me –

not you my dearest breath of

walking glory: every morning to

see your face by my side, and me forgetting

the charger behind the bed we made

right: I clearly never wanted to leave

your brave side: the pain and the gory

natures of

love: I wanted them all, and still

love the juices the body I

know refuses to allow me to suck

and nourish and nurture and

row, like couple making up on

trips on boats out of reach, into serpentine

lake within our reach – and our love as that winding up

revving down of

sex, where sex doesn’t

suck … but, then again, will – if you

see what I mean-

t: and we saw each other clearly,

we always looked closely at the feelings of the

other: and I so want your window open and like

pussy carefully entering, to investigate

as foolish newborn the wisdom

of this [uni-

{qué]

verse}.)

 

Standard