come the hours of calm.
Where the ether is still,
still enough to see its reflection.
Minds and fingers twitch,
the heady rush of this world’s
many tempting deaths, abandoning reality,
in return to the cold sobriety of the bedroom ceiling.
An alternate version of the poem “Union”.
For those I spent time with at the IOE.
Our time dims twilight as our course draws to a close.
We forecasted a spring never-ending, sharing in optimistic lies, wishing on an unlikely future forever together.
Though together we have blossomed into a family.
Read wide and vast,
adventure and explore,
though thoughts move fast.
Drink red wine
and tequila too,
sitting with minds intertwined,
allowing peace’s pass.
Debate the world flaws
shimmer in ideal’s gleam,
reconstructing this world
as if in an idealist’s dream.
recieve an education,
not a degree.
My eyes finally prized open.
The judgmental clock face
shows me pm, and half a day
The morning now purely theoretical,
the sun half way passed,
before I’ve spoken my first word,
or taken my morning coffee
As a newborn, blanketed in last night’s haven
through the social threads
of this already passed morning.
In a carnal crash of two
heated in sexual need.
We sought our delicious counter.
I approached you,
bearing words of no weight.
You were smiling, cheeks rosed,
eyes coyly flitting away.
Upheld by the bar and it medicines,
we back and forth, exchanged air,
hoping for a bold gale,
so we may sail afar.
surrounded by shoes fitting another,
in your bed, I wake.
An explorer of every pleasure’s niche,
my right arm humming, unconscious
from a precarious night’s pose.
We sip tea, and a second one too,
laying again exposed,
as we flick questions, discovering
passions and pursuits .
Clothed now in Hampstead, we part,
returning to our lives before this past morning,
our gaze locked, gasping reunion.
My eyes flee to all corners of my four walled hold,
liberation grasped through windows, stolen back.
Back to the luminescent glare of my old HP;
as I acquiesce to my paid servitude.
The week’s edge nears as time retreats,
the seconds absconding -drawing You ever closer.
Closer still, the embracing thoughts of Sunday’s sheets,
enveloping me –warm, contented, in your arms.
It did all go wrong
–its obvious end.
Our chance taken on the brittle words
that brought us together -shattered and disowned.
Leaving us as before…
Bereft of the other.
I retreated from our union,
jabbing thistles in our bond
ringing an alert of a union awry.
It should all go wrong,
we met in a place of false fronts and lying selves.
A glossy lieu, with suave social personas
titivated to an idealised reality.
Vollies of double ticked messages passed
and through their shallow blue
we were born to each other, rosey eyed
unaware of each other’s face.
We encountered in an entent fragile,
in a room sombre,
scented sweet with amber ale;
our social devotion weak and optional.