I kiss you on the neck
on the collar and down;
the hot unsettled breast,
further on. But never
kiss your mouth – it is yours
your voice must ever be
free. To make this soft ‘Oh’
If I could steal her again, my bright
breeze, give the air means to move again
I would, I would set my brother’s word
in ice, bury it here and see it gone.
What lesson was there to be learned? Once you are trapped in yourself, no gleaning
can offer you worse, can free you, so…
She flees from me and I can’t read her
despite these most constant assertions.
She sits at the computer all dressed
in that soft cotton striped playsuit. Damn
I wish I could rearrange the world
so that I get what I want. A world
where the geography itself would mean
desires satisfied and grown hectic.
And where the words strung out would thus lack
all connection to this or that – no
resistance, just me as every law.
I am tired of all the hot buses
and misty windows in hell – and words
I cannot cut at the joints, chatter
of all ghosts ever. But am I
any better? I just wanted this:
a person to lie in a warm bed
who would wake me up with caressing.
I would ever try again – but here
in Hades, desires undermine us
Now this is getting silly. Cupid,
if you are reading this, what the fuck?
You seem set on making anew
a weird and lecher homunculus,
a glance-misunderstanding device –
oh what vast repertoires of wrong moves.
Never able to make the right start
sat, still and buzzing with nothingness
mulling the ancient concept of chance.
Small and naked tormentor with barbs
of vague and undisclosed ideas
that, unlodged, send the guts sprawling out;
fire shot after shot into my head
Bang bang bang and I can never move.
This time I was just trying to read.
The flight was close range. I had no chance.
In the bookshop café you leant out
from behind a fake pot plant and fired.
Her eyes caught mine for a bright moment
I couldn’t breathe I thought this was it.
Then the poison hit. I couldn’t stand.
A shiver of lacks that drained inwards.
Stalling, the child burns and falls seaward.
Lessons learned and unlearned, still I dream
Of the conversation of bodies.
Still, in her blue eyes I sat and shook
and found some half-lost moment of peace.
How it was that Cupid arranged this
I do not know. That little fucker.
But you know when you wear a jumper
You only wear to bed, and feel it
The softness of all mornings hanging
There in the cathedral of your sleep.
You feel it brushing against your mind
The way that dry grass blows in sunlight
On the warm hillside, silent morning
Over the city? Well quelle surprise
Cupid weaponised it and bullseye –
I was on the bus, tired from walking
I was barely thinking, distracted
By a handful of small cares and time
That had nothing in it. What a shot.
Ricocheting out the café door
It blew my mind out my eyes. I stared
As this woman sat there in that light.
She was eating green soup, and talking
on the phone. And I’m damned to suffer
Yet again this fear that I’m a creep.
The bus stopped there for moment and
The world froze. I watched her spoon moving.
I felt at peace, with my brains dripping
Off the stop buttons and commuters.
My day was ruined. Goddamn Cupid.
The bus moved, time resumed. I slumped down.
-No I won’t, I think.
-I’m trying to be good.
The goblin looks around
the cave, the mould.
-It would be my fifth
Meanwhile the man moans
and rolls over
and over on the spit.
On a drive, I see cut a
high crescent anchor of the sky –
the streetlights leave their trails.
She moon appears and dissappears
behind a bus. Behind buildings.
But constant as force, strong
as day and night. She wyrds
into the middle of all skies.
And this is comfort and terror,
as she draws away and away
aeons shrink and we vanish. The end
of things and fate, the end.
But always the moon in the growing dark.
Always. Respect of existence for rock.
The dog shakes and I wait for my drink
and ice cubes float above the glass.
Poems drip from me slowly as cold pitch.
The world changes.
The human field of view allows
the castle to stand despite its thinness
on the hill formed of plucked trees
And the sea moving in all its weight
in its strength and then weakness.
Strength, weakness. Strength, weakness.
The seagulls search for fried fish
while I forgive myself of the past,
this new year. And find new feelings.
This civil war gatehouse with brick
and stone arches, towers, mossy tile,
helps me to understand myself:
It sits there, watching the grump
and joy of life and doesn’t quite know.
But it sits there all the same.
A rainbow slips into the bay around,
and grows brighter. We find a place
to park and at last, enjoy the sea.