I
Thirsty now; mouth dry like
A desert wanderer's,
Single man in solitude
Swiping right and
Not even caring
Too much.
Just looking for trouble;
Microwave-romance, softness;
A face that fits my hand.
Guitars gathering dust, begging
St. Gibson for inspiration
To shake their owner into
Lust fuelled
Songwriting; string breaking, pick
Melting, voice straining.
For now, the last of five litres of
Italian red is floating bellywards;
Bloodwards; headwards;
Heartwards, and the drinker writes
Text message poetry with drops of
Wine hiding in barley beard too
Full for an old mother's appreciation.
I owe her a grandchild.
She says poems don't count.
II
Thirsty now; heart dry like one
Not recalling love, not remembering
A woman's hungry hands on
The back of one's
Warm, wet head, pulling, nails
Digging,
Teeth biting beard.
Skin kissing skin.
Soul seeing soul and
Celebrating.
Sweet illusion of love.
I create a bed-sharer on canvas.
I compose a breakfast-eater at my table.
A listener to my songs,
Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler,
Rainstorm-listener.
I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely
My neurons dancing. Ears to hear
My compliments. Hair to brush
Away from between
Our lips mid-kiss.
I finish my wine.
Could have made nearly painful
Love to her
For ages and
Aeons, but I
Create her temporarily;
Fleeting image of a speaking doll.
Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.
She says poems don't count.
She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.