poetry

Free willingness

If everything is predictable, and even when I fuck

you in passionate embrace, someone somewhere

knew – before I even thought of doing

so – that indeed the deed would surely take place

in some glorious disgracefulness or two, at around

half-past midnight on such and such a day of

desperate yearnings and

apparently freely chosen sex,

does this mean that everything is absolutely

predestined –

fated,

belated,

hated to a millimetre,

rated in points that measure our performance

and allow those clever bods to spy on every

movement?

Or does predictability simply indicate simplicity?

Does the fact that you know how I love a certain

person,

in a certain way too,

as much as I have loved almost

anything on earth (and in fact that would be quite

untrue of me to say: there is nothing I could ever

love any more

than

you … my night and day!) mean my predictability

trammells my path to such an extent that

when we choose to touch each other, there are

numbers that determine our choice?

Or can we ever, even now, say that when two

people fuck and love and kiss and hug and smile

and laugh, and come together and come apart,

and make each other happy and make each other sad,

every single step of the way is determined by

freedom-loving steps that have come before:

liberty

bodice gorgeously

ripped from gorgeous breast as the

strengths of these lovers are tested to the max?

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poetry

An odd reality / Making love

It’s odd when love conquers all – not to gather

together but to spread out

our certainties: not to jealousy guard

a control over other but lead both the other

and one’s self by the long thin white hands of

kindness and love: oh, how I love to be touched,

I do.

 

I love the hug of odd reality, too: an embrace so

gentle and wondrous in its entity: where

those – around and about – do roundabouting

roads, and ways of winding

paths and forking junctions, and

fucking junctions that provide that

pleasure which we who do not gain a

leisurely stretch of agile body and passionate

soul and the rolling of sex like drugs of decades

way long past, find it so hard to

unharden our perspectives in time; find it

so hard to see that life is neither

truth nor untruth: for life does vary from

moment to curious moment: the reality may

become an entity which

becomes us all, or may quite sadly undermine

our [be]coming together, as fear of

what the next moment brings makes it

impossible to make love.

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poetry

Ge[or]gina and [the dragon]

Had it really come to this?

Was this what it had come to?

 

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A battle of wits between a soft spongy

space of man jealous of woman

blind to failings and functions of her

other half, no longer bet-

t-

er in any form or shape:

what he’d taken from her past times

and what he’d taken from her joy

and what he’d taken from her capacity

to happily rejoin the species of spicy

people who made her life a life

worth more than sur-

viv-

all;

a revival of sense

is exactly what she was seeing now.

 

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“A touch-

[ch]in

-g up my love!”  It’s what we always

need: it helps the severe pain and dis-

dain of critic re-

main within a soul:

recount, my love;

recant, if you can;

time runs its merry course and

I do not want to see you go on

the golf course of life; leaving us all

bereft of what could’ve been.

 

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And you were created by mad

environments led by mad

people led by crazed

jealousies led by

pipes used to batter out of heads

of helpless childhood the kindness

and love and honesty and integrity.

And the reality suddenly presents

itself quite differently to him:

the dragon he’s been fighting

from within the man he never became

is the dragon she’s been fighting

all her life to properly con-

tain.  And her brain and  her mind

and her heart and her soul

and just being, and her ways of seeing

and doing and wanting

to be done to and seen

were all confused and

mixed up in that sad person she

once was in her shaky inside and

now is clearly becoming

out.

She’s almost completely routed,

and he doesn’t want this;

he doesn’t want to lose himself

but he doesn’t want the dragon

within her to overcome the

good person deep down; the person

he once did treasure so fully

and now can only examine so coolly.

 

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poetry

C[older] / C[oo]l{er} / H[eat]

Age does not pre-

clued the abil-

i-

tie to connect and love and sex-

u-

allies attract, as large holds neck

your beautiful shuddering length

s-

sssh which stripe my sex up and own

like that age-old stick of holiday

rock licked and tongued lon-

gingly, Lon-

donly, aim-

less-

lying beside you and spurt-

in-

gasping squirts of em-

bracing seaside greys and air-

ings: cup-

boarding-

houses and

boarding

planes to strange desti-

nations and states of mind-

less and mind-

ful ex-

stasis: civil con-

flix of balan-

ced and unsaid equilibriums,

where cinema reel un-

spools internation-

ally the coming together of an en-

tyre community of the good:

a rubber Johnny Doe of the uncomm-

on man and woman.

 

 

And how I love yous, dear women,

and dear men

and dear children for this

love: if I am worthy of a tougher

kind of love in the name

I proclaim,

not disdain,

not re-

jecture in con-

jecture where a prior bad faith does

proceed to seed at last all my futures

with good deeds …

 

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poetry, trails of thought

Being [be]loved

There is nothing I know

more than what I know now

about how I know all the things I know

about life: about you, about the people

who know so much

and who’ve done so much

to do so much for me.

 

 

And there is nothing I am

more than what I am now

re how I am all the things I am

re life: re you, re the people

who are so much

and who’ve been so much

and are so much to me.

 

And there is nothing more beloved

than how I am beloved now

because of all the things I’m beloved

for: this life, you people

who belove so much

and who’ve beloved so much

and who now belove so much to me.

 

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poetry

So wasy mee dreamlikey or nightmore …?

Mee was a deadweighty or somethingy

else?

Mee was crueltying tied up with stringing –

or maybeing no thing at ally?

And was meeing ever an objectivisationing of

salivatingly lovingwe which actuallyly

demonstratedwe that anythingwe was

kindlying?

Or, on the othery leatherying handwe

of temporaising speedrany velocitying,

was meeing no dreamlikey – neithery

nowying or thenying – but simpling a nightmore

of lovingwe

rejectedingly?

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short short story

The e-male

“Fuck,” he said.

He’d spent half an hour composing five lines of email.

Then the email address failed permanently.

“I can’t do this shit,” he said to himself.  “It’s not the correct thing to do.”

And so it was that his good angel spoke up.

“Maybe it is.  Maybe the wrong way was to have done nothing all these years.  You’ve lost a lot of your life in this way.  Maybe she did as well.  There’s only one way to find out if it’s so.  You have to call her some time.  You have to call her soon.”

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