Wanted To Know You

I wanted to love you
but you made it hard,
Turned away my cheek
and instead raised the card

That declared your hostilities
and declared a war,
It was then I knew
that I deserved so much more

I wanted to love you
so you made it hard,
I wanted to know you
but you made it hard

I wonder where you are
wonder who you became,
I wanted to love you,
but you made it hard. . .

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Bodies Broke

Standing there on the twisting stairs,
legs wrapped around the banister
The cocked head leaning back,
throwing out your lonely stare.

A thousand bored nights wrapped
in your tight shawl of love and despair
Oh the pity just seeps off you, the
cold skin of a thousand frustrations.

It just makes it worse than I could care
But I still stand fixed with a potent glare.

Lips like fat potato chips, the body
dysmorphia can’t do more for you,
than I think that I thought we could
together, riding this wave of gigantic…

This wave of gigantic love that truly
fucked us up, spit and spat us out,
until we couldn’t give what was demanded
We were remanded, deported and resorted
to the horrors of the night.

The golden hair clumped in my right hand,
served as a fine reminder of a fairer time
Cast against the natural light, we dreamt
it could last always, but DSM-5 taught
me who was really alive.

(It was you and not I)

Caged room, the small ceilings always
find us kneeling, giving way on bended knees
Our deserved regression an assigned session
despite our former air of a passion kindled,
heated to intense temperatures.

Stepping up the stairs, I can see your green eyes
that silken purple dress which makes me quiver
against the oak and how I wish I’d had a toke,
but we crashed and careened as one, bodies broke.

To Pity the Fool in Love

No-one ever expects that they will walk around a corner and find the person that will become their significant other lingering there on the street before them.  How we meet our partners, our lovers and confidantes, becomes a personal legend shared between only ourselves in truth, embellished by time and by the ebb and flow of emotion.  Love can be a hard emotion to describe, to quantify or to qualify, to articulate to each other and to one another.  That drunken and passionate kiss goodbye, the result of a haphazard opportunity presented in all of its glory, sits side by side with the memory of a slow burning romance experienced in our youths when we fumbled anew under covers soaked in teenage sweat.  Experiments of connection and of lust, of two pieces of lego mixing and matching to form one.  As time recedes the flashes of faces become a Rolodex of past conquests and imagined hurt, often sitting uncomfortably close to one another.

Lust, as a rapid fire launchpad to the past, operates on much the same lines as those random encounters experienced during the vicissitudes of youth.  In moments of relaxation you are comfortably entertaining yourself, your thoughts ensconced on a particular moment and how it would play out in your mind, perhaps how you would make the move and seal the return of the love and physical intimacy as given in your affections.

Yet still, how the mind can shock and shake the very foundations of your core!

No longer are you in the throes of doubled or singled passion, your senses are startled and your hands are instead given to fumbling lamely against the body of skin and flesh before you.  No more thought is given to reaching the apex of sexual arousal.

You are instead seeing the failures of your past mount even as you have failed to.  The chances lost of forming romantic entangles in the freshly cut grass, of bridging the gap between brief fumbles on the sofa and maintaining long-term relationships.  The thought is half formed, it ghosts across the mind but briefly as you lie there on your bed, shivering in the warm night air.

To walk around the corner of the street you inhabit, to cross the road at just the right time, to be there to answer that question and to form that connection as the eyes meet, the pupils dilate, and the lips curl into a smile.  The heart that jumps a beat and resets into a rhythm of two.  To miss those opportunities.  To wait upon a table where the food of life will never be placed.  It can be a hard thing to think about in the moment of your greatest conquest, of a solo ascent.

Holiday Wishes

Give me a sign so I can start the healing,
We shared the wine around the yearly meeting.

As I don’t want to be lonely this holiday,
I’m taking off my shoes and giving my body to the homeless.

I’d give you my remaining years to be alone with you, for a minute of your time,
To give you one last kiss goodbye and a warm embrace under the leaf dappled light.

Never Alone

And you are turning to stone and I’m left all alone, I let out a soft moan.

Let this not be real and please just let it be a dream, I can hear myself scream.

This is not about me though, this is about everyone you ever loved and everyone who ever loved you.  I still cannot take it in, my heart is broken in two at the loss of my wonderful friend.  I’ve turned to old friends and to music to draw me closer to our shared memories of the years we knew each other.  I wanted to share the fact that I’d discovered a musician who I never knew but you said I should.  Now it’s the soundtrack to my grief, the one real release, where my eyes fill with tears and I’m stuck dumb once again; that I’ll never share a laugh over a drink again with your growing smile as my companion, that I’ll never get to the chance to watch your career blossom fully as it had already started to, that I’ll never get to hug you goodbye again.

I’m not convinced, but I hope it’s not the end.  Memories are never goodbye.

Home

First step up the ladder,
is the hardest they say, as we sit and sigh
in meeting after meeting where the rooms look good,
photos look even better, another rat hole, small pit,
infested, full of tits, nothing wrong
but the size of the picture.

Review after review after review, each dangling
the same beautiful bait: an affordable home.

Each set their trap in their own way, despondent
resplendent resident, a land owner, herds us round,
but he ain’t nothing but ground down by the strangers feet that,
day after day, trudge through their home, second home,
third best, first worst.

It’s the safest financial asset that you’ll ever make –
banker checks his purse and smiles, pushes across the table
how much we can just afford, give or take a decade or two,
it’s a dice throw, a chance shot in the dark for a stable home,
a sweet Rome, a capital for two.

We’ll get there I know it, though it’s just another view, another chance remark
that’ll throw me off the scent of this time well spent.

Soaring

Ask yourself but one question: does it matter?

Everyone around me was having this great big conversation with god, or a version of their god, but I was sat there, half reclining, half lying, looking up at the birds, the clouds and beyond those the stars, thinking does it matter?  How many other people are staring at these..
…magnificent cloud formations, the shapes reminiscent of
Norway’s kinking coastal outline.

The gulls were soaring mid-flight, high, coasting on the invisible
waves of the wind. It was magnificent.  They could hear the call of
their feathered friends, could survey their kingdom beneath me.

I didn’t admit it out there by myself but I was trapped, not by faith but by chance, by accepting a job at a place I knew I hated.

So each and every break-time I head outside, go to see the wildlife, the clouds, the sun whose light streaks across the sky and I think, It could be worse.  It could be better.

Saturday Night, Sunday Morning

I can only offer myself up as a sacrificial lamb but please do not hold that knife too close, let me say my piece and then we shall see who loved her, who left her, and who needed her.

Put away that cold, cold gun, and put your jacket upon the hook.  Please take your time and do not judge me before you have heard my words, my pleas, and my love for her that did burn a thousand older lovers.

We met at the crossroads half eleven at night, the film had finished and I was wandering lonely and lost.  We came across each other on opposite paths, our eyes met across the street.

Nothing needed to be said, nothing needed to be motioned, what we had we had it for that night in my old hotel room, which crowded and small, our bodies stretched across that single bed.

Before I could say no, before I could say go, before I knew what was falling I was in over my head.  Don’t hold that knife too close, my head is heavy and I am tired, I’m not sure that tonight I could put up much of a fight.

If I see you again at the old Chelsea hotel, I’ll do well to hold away, to take my body and to cross the sea, to never bother you again.

But in my breast, against my heart, I shall carry the memories of her forever.

Hold your hand, hold it tight, we only spent the night together that once.  When I look in the mirror so my body does shiver at the thoughts of what could be.  You have it all and I have just my old acoustic guitar.  Cold and worn, broken besides.

My friend you have won without ever raising a weapon against me.  It is true that your wife and I made love, that we reveled in the lust of two bodies conjoined.  It is true we moaned our way through the small hours, but that was just the night, oh it was just the night.

What I did, and what I said, I cannot make it right and I will not put up a fight.  You have my word, you have my promise – I shall never see her again.  The flick of her hair, the arched eyebrow, those are the memories within me.  I shall go, oh I will go, but where my weary feet do take me I have no idea.  I just carry on down this dusty road for one.

2 Minute Poem

Chairs or spiral stairs, hair stands on end at the thought of them.
Hands grip the sides ever tighter,
As I gasp for breath, feeling ever lighter.
I’ve changed so many times I’m not even sure
where I’m meant to sit, not even sure of my
place in this ever lasting race.
—-
I just want a comfy chair, computer set up
the way it should be, the way it could never
be, as if I were to sit still in silence, the music
still blaring.
Instead I curse the empty air as, once
again, my pattern changes, new dangers arise –
Are they an officer, an assessor?  What can I say or
cannot say in front of them?
Does it matter, are we ever really in one
place forever or are we always racing against the tide of change?
 —

The Corridors of Power

Tasks are always taxing,
Unless you’ve got greying hands and an unsteady shuffle
In which case you ignore them and secretly deplore them.
But you carry on regardless, steamrolling
Through the corridors of the company,
Your own private land of claims
Disregarded and abandoned,
Like so many lovers before you.
But now the sun is setting
On a broken dream of what could be.

The tasks are always taxing,
But they always wait their turn.

Seventeen Fifteen

Raised up, head on pillow. Eyes closed and jaw slack.

Firelight creeping up the wall, midnight

falls across the land.  Tears stain each and every pillow.

~
One last year to see it in,

one last year to see it out.

~
A round white mint, given to both

child and animal alike.  Each drawing on the sugary

energy that bursts forth.

Closed eyes and a smile drawing across the lips,

that devilish chocolate kiss, which

flooded a child’s mind at Christmas time.

~
The wind that shakes the barley,

the heart that skips a beat,

knowing that you won’t be here today

or tomorrow,

to meet for one last treat.