GUITAR
my telephone beeps
it does
not speak
it tells me
her message is here
was
holding my breath
but now
I can breathe
this is what she wrote
fingers that once
tippy-
toed now
dancing across
the keyboard
express
delivery
heart to
heart
(would those nimble
fingers were
here
plucking my strings
playing me like
a rock guitar)
NO SWEAT
I smell
of sweat
smell of death
a smell
to savour
sweat
laced with death
raw odour
needing a tad more
of your perfume
and spice on my skin
and so this alchemy
whose secret
barely hidden
opens itself
to scrutiny
lead
turned to platinum
gold
to uranium
crystal to
diamond
water
to steam
and star blazing
fissile energy
force of
such
fusion
stuff of that
industry
to thing that you are
which
that old skald, old troubadour
Saxon
Norman Viking
Celt
within me
can sing of hesitantly, imperfectly,
the superabundance you require
so
much long gone
all its
revelation
lending itself
to
all
that
is rival, separate
Other
distant in time
faithfully elsewhere
whilst
I smell of sweat, do
speak here
of death
and other transformation.
SO THERE
so there
are your coiled up
dimensions
and these are the big
space time ones
in plain sight
ones
For the light
and our delight in
that they are
the cutting
edge of power
the very
fabric
of beauty
but so many
dimensions
within dimensions
will take me a
lifetime
to discover
many more
to explore
LEO B (for B.C.)
I can’t be sure,
but I believe that this
poem might not
have been
what you had in mind
when you asked me way
back then “to come
and look
after you”
whilst he who relayed
the request
would be a month
away amongst
the ladies of Spain
I’m not sure if a poem, this poem,
is what you would
have wanted at all
but sensing innuendo
I felt I just
had to decline your
gracious offer
face your lioness wrath
when I told you this
short and sweet
over the phone
short
and sweet
sweet
and short
since I did no comfort
caring back then
I have no idea
what
you think
how
you read this
what shared, interlocked, idea we have
of a poem
and how it is written, delivered
and read
how both parties in
the creation together
forge its
meaning
of what is here
a poem
might have been
a novel
gorgeous entwined narrative
we lived to regret
then revelled in.
View
A PLEASURE
I would
say
it is a
real pleasure being in your life
but it is a
surreal pleasure
a Dali painting
a Picasso sculpture
a poem by Breton, Aragon,
Apollinaire, Rimbaud or
Neruda
a film
by Luis Bunuel
or Guillermo del Toro
in which
we are stuck together
cannot leave
until we sexually discover
the key
or sacrifice ourselves individually
in order to re-inherit
our subterranean
magical
Kingdom, Queendom
a surreal pleasure
grinning like a Cheshire Cat
whenever it
promises to reappear
SIGN
I want to take you
on a bed
of wine coloured
roses
my lips wanting your
brown skin
beneath them
for all of
human time
and though
I have not yet
found you
and still have
to persuade you
to commit
to this enterprise
an enterprise in which
we die and die and die
forever and ever
constantly rising
constantly reborn
for which the shade of deep burgundy of
these flowers
has become
of
this desire and
would be passion
its
eloquent sign.
NIBBLE
nibble
nibble
nibble
cit the wrong wire
armed the system
the count down
going
crazy
we both doomed
whatever explosion
between us
whatever
volcano
about to
erupt
magma
upon magma
superhot caldera
no hope for us now
started with a nibble
a single, fatal
total nibble
here is a desire
unleashed
devourimg
everything in its path
poems 2 die for