your name and mine

the storm last night blew
the last remaining heart-shaped leaves
from the poplar trees
and swirled them through my darkest dreams
in which your knuckles rapped upon my eyelids
in which you called from beyond the clouds
my name and your name

and with growing intensity
every last remaining rusting roofing nail
that keeps my house from blowing asunder
jiggled like loose teeth in a crowded coffin box
on which your fingers had once released
the suffocating soil to bury my voice
from that day forth

oh that I would recognise you now
with your hair tangled in windblown knots
and your limbs akimbo amongst the fallen branches
strewn upon the orchard grass
where leaves lie rotting and colour is drained
from cheeks that once were apple flushed
with your lover’s kisses

you are but the ambient past to me
pliant and fluid with a light that glimmers
not guiding or warning or even moving
but still as a mirror on an oaken table
your calfskin gloves neatly folded
heart-shaped leaves from the poplar trees
pressed between the pages of your journal

all substance turned to dust that blows
on the opening of the crackling memory
you offered me no more than you could
the leaf held to the moonlight reveals its veins
as if the blood has been preternaturally drained
and I am left with only an echo
of your name and mine

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Prairie Wishes

I want to live out on the prairie
A little house with a south facing porch
Gentle slope down to a wide expanse
Cool evening breeze to soothe the soul

I want to live out on the front porch
Kill time to the beat of the swing seat
Watch the ruby-throated hummingbirds
Cool kisses from my honey’s sweet lips

I want to live out on the swing seat
Rock to and fro in her warm embrace
Talk of this and that and nothing more
Until the evening sun leaves to rest

I want to live out in her warm embrace
Her voice washing over me in waves
You know that’s all I ever really wanted
But some wishes never will come true

we kissed

we kissed in the red phone box
until our teenage lips were sore
and in your mother’s unmade bed
her hippy mattress on the floor

we kissed in the silent church yard
amongst the souls who died at war
and holding hands at nightfall
by these glowing moonlit shores

we kissed in the uncut wheat field
under golden rays outdoors
and at the party of a mutual friend
we yearned for something more

we kissed in the poetry book section
of our favourite secondhand store
and there we found the three words
we had dared not speak before

we kissed in the same red phone box
until our adult lips were almost sore
and in this unmade marriage bed
our trendy futon on the floor

 

 

in a maelstrom

we are behind the screen hiding

and your lips are very wet

and when we kissed I drowned

and my lungs filled with your fluid

we were lipids confused together

chemically ambient

up to our necks in duplicity

fondling the fibres of each other’s

upholstered limbs

sweetie rappers on fairy dust

snorting sexual desires up inside

four pupils and nostrils flared

ahhhhhh!! the expectation

the kiss of your blissfulness

the wet of your lipstick drool

your nipples are for suckling pigs

your crackling for carnivores

and yes

there were times when it almost happened

out beyond the blue that filled your canvas

or the hallowed shapes that haunted your studio

lines permanently crosshatched

perfunctorily placed with deft indecision

spit spat and splattered upon

those wet licks that ran down the fusions  

of my spine and emptied me whole

in a quivering

in a maelstrom

Swipe (v.9. 16.16)

Greenshank Warhol Monika

the hex filled monk

and HIV Cruickshank

owner of the Hawaiian ski chateau

met Moira Edo with her

Goodnight Knights featuring

PJ Plunge the rethinker

looking everso F-stop Kuhn bold

on the road to K.D’s Lounge

 

There’s this geek up on Outgrew Creek

said Greenshank Warhol Monika

The police jugfested him today / okay

tried to thread poor Jerry Potter’s hooker

He’s Ethiopian / the type you weigh and rip

as if it were Hollywood or Vlad / or

Dustin Hoffman in the Grad / or Greek

Ought we to trip? spoke Moira underbreath

if we’d to loop old Polovitch? sonofabitch

 

For Iris Offshoot the workweek endeth

She took u and ur and rested upendeth

The Goodnight Knights took hydraulics

said it gave them a lift / made them suspended

but no one knew except PJ Plunge

the rethinker and Master Conjurer

knifing / oiling / decking / lining

Life’s death rhythm abuser

The arch ingress Welch Kruger

 

Yes her that married HIV Cruickshank

the owner of the Hawaiian ski chateau

The nights they spent ethylene wishing

justifying lifts and hailing storm clouds

earth rich / restful / potted

uninjured like chilly myths sought

outweighed / omitted / outgrowing

The Knights were outriding

servo judging Keith’s jitters

 

Hush Hush Khufu

your gifts occur plighted

rock harshened / injured / interned / jilted

Leah turns to Greenshank Monika

sheds tear upon tear upon tear upon

the footstep door of K.D’s Lounge

an open door to Golden Operatunities

but only kisses fled her billed cheek

tongued entwined with reminiscences

 

It was time to place the full stop .

 

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Forest Fires

She is nearing the point of no return str/oke no going back
her plumpish puppy flesh is tanned and sooo delectable
bikini breasts firming up to the fondled imagination
red oversized Lolita shades hiding those furtive eyes

She is extra virgin olive skin oiled with wandering hands
growing up fast ‘n’ waiting for her fumbled few moments
what’s it gonna be like? she asks herself daily, hourly
whilst pouting and picking over her shy little sister’s words

She is Ma and Pa’s protectively bookended boredom lives
they keep her social media contacts under full surveillance
staking out and spot checking suitors for suitable potentiality
they worry for the sake of worrying which only brings more worry

She is practising her kissing in front of every reflective surface
but don’t worry girl, you know you are a pretty young thing
and the boys all want to love you now before it gets too late
have you however whilst you’re young and fresh to taste

She is just not fucking gonna be like her parents that’s all
with their cellulite thighs and saggy loosened skins but oh,
the ghastly inevitability that she will one day resemble them
it butchers her body and numbs her febrile innocent mind

His lips meet the sweaty curves of her belly
His tongue licks her salty perspiration tears
His hands remove the skimpy excuses for modesty
His hardness scares the light from her skies

And somewhere,
gasping,
a forest fire
burns out of control

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