ah, those wee hours

I play with my pens
again I read that letter
I wrote to you in gothic script
I know that you won't get it, the irony-
you only understand the obvious
yet I give you benefit of doubt

I get up, pick a book of poetry
randomly read a poem
something hits me hard
I sit down again to write another letter
now in a normal tone
the poet in me guides me

I don't talk of desire or love
I am more mundane-
I send you my heartfelt thanks
for leaving me
to face the untruth
that is you. only you.

"I play with my pens"

ode to remnants of love

sitting well after midnight
I call you on the telephone
trying to save you from yourself

you are sick and do not answer
the waste of my love hits me hard
I have always wondered about the remnants

in that vacuumed state
my heart aches,
and a drousy numbness pains my senses

I watch the red coals, burning,
flashing and dying-
sitting well after midnight

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"My heart aches, and a drousy numbness pains my senses" is the opening line of John Keats ‘Ode to a Nightingale’

creative knot

carefully he circled it
the rope in his hands
a burden for him
that tree felt so like home

he chose the second lowest branch
flung the rope over it-
checked if it would hold
sat down to have a smoke

he had made neat packets
kissing each one tenderly
placed those under the tree
save for one, which went back

into the pocket of his coat
having no second thoughts
he held that rope again
and tied a precise knot

a work of beauty-
his last creative work,
and his last thoughts before
life was snucked from him

perfectly plastered

plethora of prickly,
pompous people
prevaricate

procastination
psyches me out

porous plaster
pedantically pours over
parallel lines

I push the plate of peas
placing it primly on paper

purple nail paint
prominantly displayed
on pampered fingers

ship-wrecked

I put on the absurd flip-flip
I am having to do this
there is a ladder.
hanging obscenely

I go down-.
the oxygen immerses me
my flip-flops cripple me,
I crawl like an insect

I am blacking out and yet
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

the thing I came for:
the ribs of the accident
curving their assertion
among the loyal hunters.

this is the place.
and I am here,
amongst the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course

the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
speak of a love
which is now gone forever

time and time again

on that endless highway
I stop at one of the food joints,
sit on that plastic chair
biting at that giant burger

people look at my weird beard
examine my highland kilt
you in your elegant attire
squeeze my hand reassuringly

I look around the place
scattered with wilted flowers
newspapers too flap
in that mild winds

I know I will have to die again
and you will have to follow me soon
to be reborn in which century
or which place in the vast universe

"we know not where/why yet we both do know
some kind of oracle works for us-
death does us apart, it brings us back together"

skin dreams

so you sleep so peacefully
uncaring that I watch you
those eye lids moving along
with your tremulous dreams
your nose flaring a bit
the rise and fall of your chest
I subtly put my ears to it
picking up your heart beat
I sway to the rhythm of it
I steady myself and
my palms slide over you
your skin seeps ecstasy
into mine. closing my eyes
I join you in your dreams
adding some of my own..

elbowing in, elbowing out

I pick out in the middle
errant threads from that sweater sleeve
you look back into that story

without any end
you get lost in it, pulling at the seams
elbow peeps out, dry and rough

I hanker for the warmth
and arbitarily look out for signals
the sun warms your face

"my face gets murkier"