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, trails of thought

Hurting from the start [how I wronged the people I most loved]

 

I was wrong from the start and that’s why we parted.

I phoned her awfully one day, and this is why I do not phone any more.

And that day we talked about being together.

And we talked that day about how we’d be together.

And I needed for me, not her, to be together in a way that would

mean together like something I’d never done together before.

And she said she had something important to say.

And when she said that important thing she had to say to me, I loved her

so much that I really didn’t mind what she had in mind to say – or indeed

went ahead and said.

And I really did love her, that is truly a fact, but I expressed my love poorly,

and if I had not, we would have spent the past decade still seeing

each other and loving, and fascinating the drawings and thoughts she would

gloriously have, and liking the words and the turns of phrase I’d churn out

with my ham-fisted joy.

But what really went wrong, went wrong at the start.  For I convinced her

in that phonecall, that awful call of foolish nature, to

love me in a way she did not want to love me at all: simply the love that

broaches body and shares almost everything that anyone can

share,

about a person and a being and a wondrous soul.

And although she was adult and older than me, in reality I was stronger

and angrier than her, and I spent that awful phonecall convincing her

and making her and crying her and bewildering her and advantaging

her, and doing all these things I have spent a

decade – and more – utterly ashamed for.  And doing all these things

I can never go back to.  And doing all these things

I should forever hang my head in shame.  And the shame was not

hers but mine.  And the rhyme which vanished from the life I treasured

was the rhyme which vanished from my life forever.

And there are no words I now know to replace the pain of that

time: in my mind; in hers; in those who knew then – and in those

who now know, because

I’m telling you so.

 

The strongest person you ever do meet is never the one you should

gladly take advantage of.

 

So if we are no longer together, the blame is all mine.  And if you

ever read these words, and if you ever remember those words,

and if you ever can forgive me both these things, then

do ring the changes on your life; do settle yourself finally down

to knowing it was me who went and did this terrible

thing of taking advantage of a woman of love, and hurting you

like I went and did, my love; and that’s how I deserved exactly

everything I lost.

 

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

Modus vivendi (III) (REALIsaTIon)

You make of what you’ve been given, but making

can end: it’s too late on occasions to

change what-

ever may have lasted in previous e-

poxs: illness and happiness in equal pro-

portions are layers of experience

which essence our lives with flavours

and saviours we’d love if we could:

but hubr-

is

is there: in darkness and light, and light

but mainly darkness: th-

is is all there is.

 

REALIsaTIon is tough.

I am not.

I have forgotten what

living in love could be.

And what you forgot really does not

hurt that much: if at all; at all it does

not really hurt.

 

Who are we convincing?  No one,

I guess.  But the necessary mot-

ions must fly apart and attach to other

ways of being that one day

will for-

m: for you and for me, luv.

 

REALIsaTIon is that.

 

Standard