I can't remember if I had sex last night
I'm in my under wear
and she.....well she is beside me.
I don't remember there being any
soft kisses or heart felt embrace.
I don't remember any demons taking over
and violating her face.
She sleeps soundly though and moans
When my cock brushes her thigh.
She lays her head upon my chest
and kisses me there.
I dare not wake her because she may remember
and out into the rain I go...
Sleep for now
Dream for later
She stirs, turns and makes herself comfortable.
And she sits her ass sweetly onto my cock growing
She wiggles against and moans once more ...
A memory perhaps
But about last night I am not sure.
hatred is something that
stirs deep down in you.
it's always there
as a constant reminder
of the non-existent
hatred changes you
for the worse.
how do you learn to love
after hatred has been there
for so long?
hatred bring pain.
makes you block everyone out.
how do you recover
if there is no cure?
what if there is no one
willing to show you
what love is?
after so long,
you forget about love.
slips your mind.
and you never think of it again.
that's all i really want right now.
to be loved.
but what if there is no one
to show you how to be loved?
hatred makes you weak
and it's hard to become strong
after being weak for
Tap, tap, tap.
These repetitive little things
repeatedly annoy me.
They tap and tap and tap,
and my blood begins to boil.
Tap, tap, tap.
It's like it echos in my head,
like whispers that emit
in a room that makes no noise.
And I am tired of the-
tap, tap, tap.
It drives me crazy, and,
i cannot control it.
I have a problem,
I don't like to be controlled.
And when the tap comes tapping back,
I cannot sit at all.
It stirs me like a coffee cup and
throws me like a switch.
It's like a faulty bungee jump
or a clock that only ticks.
TAP TAP TAP.
It's only getting worse.
I cotnract, with the-
tap tap tap-
and I can't control myself.
So stop the tap, tap, tap,
or maybe I'll stop it for you.
Because once the demons rise in me,
the anxiety builds a wall,
and it won't control the things I'd wish to do at all.
seen from the terrace above
this rectangle of water
absorbs the variousness
of the late spring skies
from folds of uncertain cloud
past brief appearances of blue
to the sudden closeness of rain
the preciseness of it
this rectangular pool
set in an oblong garden room
on a terrace the middle of three
that fall away to the valley’s end where
up and through and which a funnel of trees
climb to the tops the very heights today
severe against a modulating sky
yet in the camera’s eye
this horizontal mirror
is a painting fit
for Le Musée d’Orsay
a season’s accident no less in
light and growth and colour
where the chequered strings of
toads’ spawn and darting tiny fish
are brush strokes come alive
kneeling on the stone rim
as if in prayer afore
this reflecting space
attentive to what seems
between what is
this woman holds within
her perfect hand the pond
its image as it moves and stirs
across her gentle gaze
Where do you go
Where do you hide
When you don't blow
What stirs your motion
Why do you howl
And sound as if crying
Do you have emotion
What makes you change your mood
Sometimes whimsical and playful
Brushing through the trees
And rustling the leaves
Sometimes a hideous ghoul
Destroying everything like a fool
Are you one and are you lonely
Changing your tune
Or do you have many friends
And when you gather
It's a hurricane or a monsoon?
Your gentle breath
Stirs autumn leaves in the streets of my mind
Your eyes are so promising,
Rolling like newsreel camera,
Your pupils shifting like lenses
Their tender glint
Swears there is something better
Something bigger than this
Somewhere, perhaps soon
Somewhere the sparrows sing
And the summers are blue
And the satin is black
Your hands on my back
Rub and comfort for what I will remember
Was an eternity
Someday maybe you'll sway with me
Sing, sing willow tree
We've always swayed together
Maybe one day you'll engulf me
When I, fed to the tongues of fire,
Will turn my face to the flames
To the burning, divine kiss
But it would scorch my heart
With a single ember
Of a charred willow tree
A November wind stirs up the road before us,
we still don't see the leaves falling
We laugh and cry amongst ourselves,
and hear not the silent whispers calling
The twilight dawn caresses our echo_
And carries it away into the misty abyss
Sad symphonies still linger on the breeze
And tears like raindrops fall
Memories of yore float back to me
On the dancing wind
The breeze stirs the tall green grass
Bittersweet memories flood through my head
And leave me crying
My tears turn into dewdrops
And wake the world anew
They kiss the silk petals of
And make the world
Glitter with raindrops
That had been once my tears
To the song of Nature
Played on harps of sparkling gold
And on violas sweet
Violins create a lovely prelude
Of majestic beauty
Little sheer wings
Barely visible appear
And I realize with sudden spark of joy
That the Fairies have come
Their wings flutter and blow my brown hair
And my blue eyes sparkle with joy
Their soft hands gently stroke my cheeks
And their fingers stroke my brown hair
Then their cherry lips
Sweetly kiss my cheek
And then they say goodbye
And I am left alone once more
In that meadow
Where memories returned once more
As they did before
Leaving me sad
Shimmering faces, golden.
Impish grinning faces, welcoming you & me.
Mermaids swim upstream, pale & glistening bodies hiding under the waves.
I watch the children play with their swords & spears, as they watch their leader fly.
Fly off, to scout the area for the day, leavin our side once again with the promise that he shall join us yet again at sundown.
Glistening in the moonlight, the dew stirs in the air as we dance among the indians.
Smiling as I see you turn, only to have you pull me up to join.
Spinning & Jumping to the beat of the drums until the sun crests the horizon once more for another day.
Turning to the east to find the Captain gliding toward the shore;
signaling the beginning of yet another adventure.
His cold blue eyes bearing the promise of death.
To die, would be an awfully big adventure. <3
This run of days so ordinary
you wonder if the extraordinary
What is this past
that so disturbs
your memory’s ride?
Back a fortnight,
you are still working out
the whole chain of it.
Sunday, and awake with the dawn,
cold April, late daffs.
Birds forsaking their chorus,
keep their heads down.
Not a twitter.
she, in the final throes of sleep,
having practised breathing all night,
is playing dead lions.
Nothing stirs. Surely,
this is unfair such slumbering,
when you are so passion-poised.
Stretch your hand under the pillow
where you know her hand lies.
Place your hand so close so
close but not to touch – yet.
You are aroused with thoughts
of encounters (past rare wonderous
enveloping moments) when breasts press,
feet stroke calves, and fingers touch
where fingers should only touch in bed
(though you remember when,
elsewhere, such touching touched
and passion palpated shook the air).
She wakes and checks the clock.
How long have I to wake
before we join in love's brief grasp?
Oh to be still, oh be still my love,
so I can drift and sort my thoughts?
Now she opens her arms to you,
and her own sweet self drops away
into a real and present pleasure.