Poem: Effusion

effusion

I’ve spent my whole life dreaming of you,
But it is only now, dream diamonds poured
Into the cup of flesh that I come face to face
With what I’ve most desired – this being of magic,
This anarchist of perfection, offering me a mirror
Of all I most love within myself.

I want to give myself to you,
To offer every inch and acre of my heart to you
For your delight and delectation –
I am at your disposal,
To observe, listen, engage, worship,
To play earpiece to all you have to say
Even if it undoes me in the expressing

Because all I want is to love you,
Freely, truly, without fear or duplicity,
But to love you openly would be to change you,
To change all that made me love you;
My love would be as a teardrop on stained glass,
A maggot infesting a fresh repast

So, as I watch you, talking animatedly opposite me,
I must pretend that I am not there,
That I am not a being with arms, legs,
With sensations that wish to be expressed through them,
That there is nothing for me to reach towards;
I am merely the eye through which you look at yourself,

Because you cannot touch a painting while the ink is wet,
Read a perfect poem through grasping fingers;
All I can do is read, and read, and read you,
And pray the turning of your pages never ends

For the sake of civility,
I will pretend we are equals,
Even if I only exalt myself through worshipping you,
Through appreciating you are the totality
I have ever been reaching towards

Would a kiss fracture the perfection of that glass?
Would a too sincere caress soil a perfect world
That has no desire to be disturbed?

I am only a peasant,
A poet crying outside castle walls;
I am no warrior,
No aggressive invader,

All I can hope is that as my tears mingle with your stone,
We can find a way to be together and alone,
So I can kiss the stained glass of your beauty,
Without leaving a whisper of ripples in the water

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Poem: The Galleries

beach

I.
Come, link your arm in mine,
To the soft rustle of your dress,
We’ll walk the galleries together,
Footsteps slow, each pivot of your heel
A timeless nexus between breath’s motion

Can you hear the wind in this painting, my love?
The way the willows bend
To the violent kiss of the wind,
Our feet kissing the floor’s tessellations,
The deprivations and regressions of our lonely imaginations

May we, like needlework,
Frame the softness of our silence,
Encase it in a warm crystal, without borders,
All our marvellous moments,
Orbed in a serenity,
Hushing all who observe it

Now my legs are bleeding,
The winds blow too cold,
And the distance of your dress
Makes me nervous

No more do stilettos practice echolocation,
Like bats, trapped by window glass,
Giving up on their escape,
Enwombed in ennui,
She perches nervously on me;
Her talons spell disaster
For all I’ve hoped to be

II.
Now, in the sand dunes,
Skirted by skylarks,
The particles create skirmishes
From the fickleness of fractals

All the weft of stranded sea creatures,
The wet footprints of pebbles,
The mad dance of Pembrokeshire,
And the engrams it engraves

But how am I meant to feel a thing
With all these petticoats about me?
The friction of sand flaying my labia,
My vulva, the corseted hermaphroditic impulse,
To be lonely, to belong, to be free

I can never achieve them all,
Reach a self of holy Trimurti,
Watching other kites fly,
Too much shame to fly my own

Shame, always shame,
Keeps my love subdued,
Puts fear in men and women,
Leading me to conclude:

I am my own asylum,
The bonds of my own containment,
The extinction of my only freedom,
My antlers on the walls,

I should never have come to the beach,
Too full of my sadness’s singing,
Always mouthed by the sea,
Too full of my sadness’s meaning,
An unbearably poignant triptych,
Placing a coffin in my heart,

Never a Lady beside me,
Always a man apart

Poem: The Fruits of Sadness

tree heart

From an unexpected distance
A cannonball hit me in the heart,
Blood throstled from my vena cava
And coronary chambers, erupting like a fountain,
From this new mouth in my breast bone

There was no one to hear it speak, to help,
In this ashen desert, no flashes, no searchlights,
Only explosions to warm me, ruptured and bleeding
Into the blackened soil, rich with the loam
Of turbid hurt

With the swiftness of a swallow
The blood-loss visions began,
The bleached skeleton men dropped seeds into my chest,
Feeding that mouth, massaging my dripping arteries
Into terms of acquiescence

Then the thing began to take root,
All those barked fingers peeling through vertebrae,
Rending my skin to seek the soil,
Tendrils raping the gaping mouths of my veins,
Transforming my torso into a suffering, green plexus

Soon my thorax was a hunk of wood,
My oaken heart blossomed with a pain so magnificent
It nailed me to the ground

It was still winter,
No leaves came,
Birds perched sad on my naked branches,
Harvesting the haemoglobin dripping from my buds

No symbol of hope is intended in this,
Just a dying heart,
Turned, Daphne-like, into a tree,
And all the inevitable life that comes with it

 

Poem: Murder Between Two Walls

murder.jpg

To think I had all this space to myself,
I could’ve done the most awful things:
Ejaculated blood into the carpet,
Clogged the elevators with my harvest of dead,
Dismantled the limbs of the room service girl,
Hatched my desires from out of my head

But I did nothing,
I was a good boy,
I kept my murders to myself,
Smouldering passively betwixt these walls

I’ve done everything you asked,
Isn’t it time to kill yet?
I’m so hungry and famished,
Starved of love and sensation

When comes my great act of defiance –
The amoral spectacle for which I’ll ever be remembered?

No one will know, of course,
You’ll only read this if I decide not to do it,
Carry on going quietly back to my room,
With passivity to allay my murder

Be grateful the blood stays in this pen,
And never goes any further