sex – poems 2 die for

CHORD

I imagine
there is a script in my head

the page not yet in being
crying out for
birth by improvisation

wanting to go wherever
it wishes to go

meanwhile in the forest
Puck never foresaw King Crimson
never anticipated
the marriage
of Robert
and Toyah
Toyah and Robert

when these stories
tell themselves
they believe
brain states but pen dictates

something in the ether
flutes, strings or
maybe
an eerie mellotron
singing, cross-
pollinating

I don’t know
whence or why all this comes

flows first
like a trickle, then
a river flowing
through a capital city

but it comes
it comes
turns time to
its tune

and you
as always an inspiration
to me

serenading me silently
but inwardly I dance, have
no choice
but to

your body
raw rock and roll, incipient
heavy medal

your mind
Mingus, Davis jazz solo

your voice
the missing solution to
every unsolved ancient philosophical
problem

every genre
zone and miracle twist
in the plot, jaw
dropping moment

leaving no niche
left uncovered, hoard unfound
across that sweet topography

and every
molecule fibre
crying out, imploring you
to fuse
with my mythology
jump aboard my allegory

become my inner metaphor

in the confused progressions of this symphony

the very Devil’s chord lurking
I do believe

LONG NIGHT

let me walk you through
the length of a night
the breadth of a poem

sorry if you so surely Shelley
about the nature of rhyme

miss a beat, grimace
flutter as the lines stutter
not Homer blind but
pretty much a
stick-shuffling cripple

trying to make it through
short days
long nights

when you so cookie-cutter
about everything
dial in delivery
everything on the menu
from hot to
G spot

long night love afterglow
basking in luxury

let me
cuddle my pen

dishing you
this trash

TRUNK CALL

trees get caressed
the wind don’t give two hoots
about how
gnarled the trunk
venerable the branches

me, however,
not so lucky

had to donate
my sex manuals to charity
now the print
grown
so small

funny how it happens, how
time loses elasticity
my sprint becomes
an amble
becomes a crawl

but you
faithful breeze
finding blossoms around
my boughs could
not believe
I had
something under your
touch eager to
comply, act
in

concert
go reciprocal

be bathed and baptised
believe in

gospel of my resurrection
what you whispering here

MATE

first
the chess
and there you
got me
King jammed
in the corner by
my own rook

your white knight
on a white charger
simple coup de gras
smothered mate

but nothing
like the chess
the sex afterwards

here the conflagration
much more hussars and
dragoons totally
Napoleonic

me and my Josephine
sharing our huge victory
pincer
movement, double
envelopment
Jena, Austerlitz cannot
hold a candle
to our fantastic
achievement

in the entirety of
military history never
such a
score achieved

ODD WORLD

in your odd
volumpuous world

I bump into the sacred
trip over the profane

think of all those saints in
the skins of demons
and vice versa
who scrawled
their holy script
all night
with you

thinking
I could have
shown you something
shown
them something

but, alas, you
missed your opportunity
all and sundry

I sink so stately
into the grave

SYSTEM

and now I find
and now I find

gymnast and
syntagm
are so intimate

anagrams
of each other

spooky action
at linguistic distance

but what do I know
of such unique connection

all my lovers
ghostly, some
actual ghosts

the dust of all
that was desire questioning
my stridence

gives the idea
puts me on notice

that it is
all simulation

and when you undress before me
in name only

getting the sweet syntax
up and running

see what you are up to here
Mr Shakespeare or
Earl
of Oxford

whatever you wish to go by
privately call yourself

spilling from Juliet’s lips
the philosopical truth of
a true rose

even if
a thousand years of cynicism
scepticism stands in its way

when you
go inexplicable mystery
and wrap yourself around me

making us (yes, channeling you
Professor Noam Chomsky)
branches, leaves
upon the same tree

graft taking
we can grow now together

happy
(who would not be) though
this all
feels pre-planned: our
perfect simulation

RICH I am waiting, searching for my perfect being but I fear she will be made of anti-matter altogether, too complementary and so in the face of an oppositional universe I turn to poetry, just vegetate scour for a physics that might suit md better, sweeter, finer truly orgiastic resonating like bongos played in bars and night clubs by some California genius spirit a figure so rich pushing the outside of the envelope with every squiggle of chalk smooth stroke of his pen

A CLUEDO (HAVEN’T GOT)

A CLUEDO (HAVEN’T GOT)

deduced it in no
time

saw it clearly it was
either Plum that went
shapeshifter
eliding, gliding
between
the kitchen (pots
still greasy)
and the games room

turning up at the table
through
the fourth wall

or could be
Mustard, that die-
hard Imperialist with the
old Western front Vickers
water
-cooled machine gun

defending the pantry against
whatever
latest horde of savages

took out Ms Scarlett and
Ms White

ebony and ivory in
their delightful negligees

wandering aimless into
his line of sight
in persuance of
their tryst

or Green could have done it
C of E but some old Catholicism
at root there

         adding a twist of hemlock
to that holy wine
(cardinal
   not working out, we’ll
smoke that
one out
               bring in another)

or someone in the garage
with rolls royce style
handy wrench

call murder murder
a spade a spade

a wrench a bloody brain-
fragment spattered wrench

and me
with my candle card yet again

with
such bad eyesight
cannot make out a thing

JUKEBOX

JUKEBOX

we had love
hard and soft love together

in my dreams
or maybe
your dream

difficult to say
how must claim authorship,
location and territory

so receptive our separate states
given you
had been studying a
painting by Miro,
I, for my part, reading
Neruda

poetry from a time when
Communism was sexy
full of the surreal
and carnival
potential

and Professot Slavoj Zizek,
archetype of
Lacanian pessimist

was young in years, wet
behind the ears

little more to speak of
than mere
slip of a
Slovenian lad

Prince’s sign of the times

        song on
the jukebox before
                              we
did
   our dance

LINES

LINES

making love
to you

I forget
my lines

feel forced
to ad lib
ex-
temporize

make it
up as along this sweet
hot wet
tightly twist-
ing road
we go

garbling all
the poetry