He’s accomplished nothing,
his life a watered downs success,
a “skidder” was it?
His hands filled and emptied
in times unrelenting passing.
The smartest man in the room
-the pin his satin lapel sports.
A cut glass vernacular
affected by a crude Kingstonian drawl.
He amongst his Muji décor,
pours Oolong tea in a sole cup.
His community an artificial complex
continuing his saga of solitary emancipation.
In a carnal crash of two
eyes glazed
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.
And so,
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.
We say goodbye,
our eyes rosed and tender,
our hands falling apart.
as I part -whispering a kiss
on your tear laced cheek.
Enveloped in cotton I fidget
revolving in my sheets,
stabs of light piercing the venetian blinds.
Bemused by last night’s journey home.
My core nauseous
from spent pleasure
and shame
from the night before.
I was there,
in full force.
Regaling unfamiliar ears
with the same stories.
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.
How may I speak of you?
With words removed from cliché.
Into my breath you pass through,
breathing words of virgin amouré.
Distant you’re a glow in a sombre air,
your clarity breaking night.
I approach to see what’s there,
and my soul flutters to flight.
J.C. FitzDerick 