Sunday, September 24, 2017

The Film

Standing in the corner
Amongst the bohemian
Brotherhood of buddies.
And wine laced laughter
I pass you.

I pass you again
As lips, with
Subtle sensuality
Kiss the body
Of Shiraz

We sit, while
Strangers unknown
Play life’s dramas
In the safety
Of a screen

We sit,
Strangers, you and I
Then miss
Each other
In the leaving

Yet seeing
We saw each other
Perhaps that was enough
Perhaps, but
Perhaps not

Friday, September 22, 2017

The intimacy of anonymity

Be silent
Do not speak
Nor whisper
Your name
Its weight
I cannot

Don’t burden me
With your
Weight of history
Your body
In my arms
Is all
I can bear

Your tears
Do not
Move me
As our sweat
Trickles and
Pools in puddles
Between us

Be silent
Let seconds
Merge, as our
Bodies fuse
And breathe
Blends in
Muted moans

Then go
Unknown, back
Into your skin
Pick up
Your history
Leave me in
Intimacy, unknown

Sunday, September 17, 2017

This inconvenient age

I should perhaps
Act my age.
Begin to settle
Into stultifying
The endless looping
Of mindless stories
To reassure that once
I held some relevance

Perhaps I should
Act my age
Accept with ungracious
Chagrin the things I missed
And smile with
Jealous maliciousness
At youth’s reckless
Gluttony of life.
Perhaps I should

But perhaps I won’t
For this is an inconvenient age
When chronology and attitude
Are at their antagonist best
While chronology creeps
At light speed
The insipient rebellion
Of youth blooms with
Flagrant disregard

At this inconvenient age
I will waltz
With the devil, and
Drink Bacchus’ cup
A broken heart
Is freed from fear
Its fragments resilient
Can carry regrets
Without fear of hell

Saturday, September 16, 2017


It creeps surreptitiously
Choking dawns arrival
While dreams flickering
Play on screens
Of neural emptiness

Colour and diversity
Bleached into
Ethereal whiteness
Realities edges

Birds wait in the
Suffocating sameness
While silence sighs, it’s
Aria of stillness
And dreams flickering

As day, stealthy
Creeps into the
Crevasses of sleeps
Blissful emptiness

Saturday, September 9, 2017

Mown Grass

I crossed with
Mindless haste
Intent on fashion
Or, to be more precise
The salesman of the fashion

Somewhere half way across
The pungent scent assaulted
The odour of cut grass
Offended that its fecundity
Should now, impotent die

Then realising where I was
I saw those lines
Marked black
Straight lines
Tests of masculinity

Pubescent boys
Who ran
Straight and fast
Gained the accolades
Men in the making

While insects rose
Before me
In choruses of
Orgasmic delight
Feeding on decaying grass

I, in stepping
Out the lines
The shame, of
Always coming last

Friday, September 8, 2017


The pressure of his hand
Anxiously uncertain
The sinewy sensuousness
Of quadriceps rising
To kneel in
Supplication or adoration
Ambiguously unknown

The warm toxicity
Of breath
Eyes searching
The boundaries
Of the face,
For some tenuous flare
Of recognition

Time eclipsed
In the masked ball
of reversed reality
Where nakedness is
Revealed but not
The intimacy of
Our name

Of time hunted
With Erotic intensity
The weight of bodies
Then elided from the day
Held in memory

Monday, September 4, 2017

Love's Distance

From afar
He said
I love you

He meant it
At least, he believed
He meant it

The residual afterglow
Of the friction
Of bodies

For love

Pupils dilated
Search the contours
Of our faces

His history
Just beginning
Mine etched in lines

I love you
He said
Hoping it was true

But ours
Was a case
Of mistaken identity

He the youth
I might have been
I the man he might be

Too much distance
Too much hope
Too much fear

I love you
He said, with
Perfunctory politeness

I smiled
Love’s distance

Friday, September 1, 2017

Same - Same

Once more
The barricades
Are built, and
Words hammered
Into one dimensional
Complexities are
Flat-lined into
And flags unfurled

Men, who in
Humbler times
Acknowledge the
Of the mind of God
Assume the arrogance
Of God above God
And claim to know
The mind of
The Unknowable.

The foundations
Of society
Threatened by
A definition
Rather than
Our rage,
Our greed
Our failure of compassion

I have walked
These paths before
And smelt the
Sulphuric acidity of
Men’s impotent rage
That their fire and brimstone
Did not pillars of salt make
Of all the poofters in the place.
Instead in their fear
They shouted
As if that
Would send us
All to hell

Beneath the clamour of
The shouting
I hear the silent sound
Of grieving
Hope interned
In the mound of
Broken hearts
The dove of peace
Flown once more
And love
Cremated in anger’s fury

When will we learn?
When will we bow
In humility before
The diversity in creation

And accept
The diversity in humanity