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

Your windows on my soul

Your eyes are windows on my

soul: old though it is; older though they are.

And age is perceived by

those who wish to see their death [ap-

{re-

proach]}

that much sooner than May

herds its fragrant blooms across

summer month to

August-time of hay.

And your eyes deepen even more than my soul ever

could: in your eyes I see reflecting my much better

self: and only when I look inside your body,

and touch the juices of your wants, and realise

these wants do include the being that is me,

and then I touch the innermost movement

of your joyous wanton clockwork, as you shout out in

glorious pleasured treasured moments which

mean so much ecstasy: you are my

drug, after all,

dear love.

 

And am I yours, too?

Your drug … and your love?

 

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poetry

T[h{is}] …

His this is close to a love

outside measure,

where treasuring of

hearth-

gallivan-

tied sex-

ridden

heathened

lives of pleas-

lured moments that retract

make us better and warmer and kinder

than ever: moments when we pull

out and back and forwards in-

side my side as universal

pinning up on crosses

of falling out and then in

to your beautiful

[w]hole, and the sole

of your soul which tramples me

in passionate em-

bracing as I hold you over

table and chairs, and

stairs guide us up and deep

into each other, and over

and under the his that is

finally … this.

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poetry

Cof[fee]

There’s a fee for almost everything:

almost nothing is free of

fees: fees for this, and fees for

that.  I’d eat my hat but my hat’s got

fleas.

But like unconditional love,

one thing in life is quite free of all fee.

When I wake up, don’t make up (still a man

who doesn’t do the lipstick he’d love to

kiss; the eye-liner he’d love to see around

those deep round eyes of love

and sex and burning ambition, and

wild neglect; the foundation that’d

lay the foundations for days

of glamorous outings and

nights of fabulous innings – not

cricket at all, but who cares any more?) …

and the wet wake-up call I most enjoy

in the absence of your damp skin touching

my skin is the smell and sound of

coffee that is made in my machines

and percolated like ancient water

through the granite of your heart.

And although the coffee does have a fee

where shop intervenes in

distribution and sale, where the

cost of coffee no can do is in its reverential

ritual of making.

The huge return, like sexual membership

of exclusive club, by now of dark and natural

hub, is the pleasure of the senses

that opening the tin and the din of smells

and the evoking of memories as yet unlaid down

(but is it possible to have a memory of

something yet to happen?  Maybe it is: your

love for me already seems natural as

patterns that weave in lives still unlived

but clearly on their way to experiencing).

 

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poetry

Sk[in] [6]

I wake up in the middle of my night –

so you have me before you; unable to keep at

bay-

ing wolves of fear that pursue

me almost like before.

But then their howls, down

dying their now, remind me I have a choice:

I can run as before

or fight the fear

I contain, which has stained my life

and that of others.

And if the parallel art which speaks

its name, its story and its

terrifying point of view (I fear once

more – so is there no end to fear?)

does damn me as it might, my

fear and disgrace and anger about myself

for having engaged in a battle of wits

I had no right to impose upon you all –

the ones who loved me in the ways they

needed (for that is the essence of liberty, not

my wants) … it shall – this art – be quite com-

[re]plete:

a manner of writing has become

a manner of speaking that life will deny

any manners at all.

And all I ever loved about you was the way

you became happy in my presence: and that,

in the absence of anything I was able

to get from the cupboard of physical

affect that was bare, though not naked

(I fear again!) (but I’m repeating myself:

who cares

about these things which bore you any more?

Who cares that they bore me so hard

in those days

that I still feel a hole drilled through my

whole body from end of time –

from end

of days too?  Is that to be my

terrible fate?) –

and so I also so yearned for your nakedness

and body:

to touch

your breasts gently or fiercely, to feel your

legs held around me, wanting to be around

me … that’s all I wanted:

I only wanted to be wanted, and

all my life I’ve been as if on a weirdly

first

distant

date: hoping only (as one really should) for

a peck on the check

(or did I mean cheque or

did I mean cheek?  Only the Lord knows

now what I mean …), and

a promise understood of more than

a touch on the shoulder of weighty

manhood as given or taken or

lost today: this was the cost of my inability

to say that today is the day we

either do talk or go

walk our separate ways.

But then I ask myself now, as the wolves

do howl, if art in itself –

or even my daily joy – justifies the pain

of hurting others when I know from the in-

side what it is to be hurt: if only we could

be the adults I wasn’t, we could

pick up and find some adult way forwards:

adult in sensibility and equanimity and

favour, but adult in senses and sexes and

fervour, and maybe it’s time I asked the

universe for the guidance

I need:

for the skin I am in

has so little distance from the pain I became

as rain fell on a plain; and I wondered,

even now, if when you say those things

(those things that so easily make me feel

I was a p’raps a tad

more than a tiresome writer of winging words

which draw more attention to their

own dancing flight than

really I was able to add to their meaning –

or even their sheer bestockinged delight!) …

and those things people say lately,

which make me want to weep

because no one says such things

to me any more,

not in a minute nor a day nor in a week …

and you

suggest that I was born to be

loved in that way

you suggest in that way maybe I misunderstand,

and I love the idea behind the

kindness enshrined, but then do wonder fiercely

whether really you are telling me

I deserve to be loved but don’t deserve to

love others.

And maybe you mean my job on this rock

is to change my evil ways and become

the good that broke the

lot those many years ago, when fear

attacked my soul and made me quite incapable

of doing the stuff I now do:

and what I do now … it sincerely isn’t false, but it

wasn’t always like that and I wouldn’t like

at all to give a false impression: a false man

I might be for even trying goodness so publicly,

so brazenly, so obviously, so redolently, so

heavily:

a fallen

man with a desire to be touched in the ugly skin

he’s become, and who’s reached the very end of

a curious story where this being tethered to

a curious owner has led him to

bemuse why love is so complicated:

 

 

and the

funny thing and truth is that

love I have had, from everyone in bucketfuls:

and I guess it’s quite true:

 

but what’s really missing from my life is sex.

 

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