My body temperature rises like the moon.
Odd that the sun is the symbol of heat,
yet, most heat is felt at night.
Subtlest of sighs and I am undone.
Buttressed and encompassed by you.
I want to bite, nibble, peck at your neck
Like an artist with granite I want to carve into you
I crave you, I want to market our practiced need.
Subtle yet lulled, our lust will be boundless.
Founded on our need to keep our word.
We together are a force, a natural force.
Unreserved, unobserved, unconcerned
I allow you to flood into me.
Hazily, I am drawn to the figure on the floor,
we swore no more, but the thrill of the slow ****,
allows us to be enthralled, exhilarated, liberated.
The moon wanes, the body grows cold, we soar
as we clean the gore.
We swear 'nevermore' but are we just Poe's distraught
lovers, falling into madness?
The madness of the bloodlust, ******.

Serendipity.
You ******* what!
What you saying, pal?
Serendipity, oh aye, all right,
Aye, seren-******-dipity; whatever!
Tell it to the raggedy soaked-wino,
Look into his rheumy eyes, really look,
Want to kiss his toothless grin, eh? Do you?
Feel his sore-ridden tongue searching you out,
Nay, I thought not, anyway, he hears nothing,
Nothing except the rattle of change.

Tell it to the punctured ******, go on,
Cold body on a cold linoleum floor,
He can’t hear you either, maybe though,
Maybe, slipping away on the last tide of life,
Do-gooder, maybe he will hear you call,
‘Serendipity’ and wonder: what the ****?
Until blackness closes in, blanking the stars.

Tell it to the Fourth Bridge jumpers, go on,
Always falling; to them, falling forever,
In hearts and minds, the event horizon of death,
Trapped in limbo, leaving unbearable hurt behind,
Along with serendipity and bad choices.

And the young, oh they need serendipity,
Cruelty of life glittering in furtive wary eyes,
Old already, far beyond halcyon blue-skies,
Used and abused by those closest, the shame,
Erosion of trust and sincerity completed over night,
Christmas ghosts: slovenly laggards by comparison.

Resilient youth! Yep, they ******* need to be,
Grinding machine of town-life hunting them,
Scouring dark corners, gnashing jaws growling,
Crunching down darkened alleys, feeding,
Lapping up the young blood of runaways,
Slavering maw eating them alive; laughing.

With serendipity, they can lie low, maybe hide,
Dream of escape, for they all want out,
Putting misery behind them, quelling cruelty,
After all, they live in a lucky ******* town,
So escape is not impossible, no,
Unlikely, yes, poor wee *******.

Serendipity should shout a loud warning,
Run, scrawny urchins, run if you can,
Run for your lives, the rest of your lives,
Town-life’s grinding machine awaits,
Watches for you, so keep running,
Never stop, never look back,
Not ever, not ever,
Serendipity.

©Paul Chafer 2014

24 hours without.
Strip off the clothes that enveloped you
And have been my armor for the past day.
I try to convince myself I'm not washing you away.
That I'm not sending the sensations
Of your soft skin on mine
Down the drain.
I turn the water temperature up high,
Because maybe the heat will burn through a layer of my storm cloud,
And I wait a while before stepping under the flow,
Hugging my arms tightly around my aching frame.
A song comes on and then another and another
And my tears intermingle with the warmth surrounding me.
It's hard to always be on the verge.
Makes it difficult to speak.
So I close my mouth
And I lock up my heart.
You once whispered to me:
"It's hard to feel this sad and this happy
At the same time."
What a paradoxical feeling.
When the water runs free of shampoo and bubbles,
And I fear you've gone,
I curl up into a towel
Which is soaked in the scent
Of fresh lilies.
My darling.
Guess there's no way I can get rid of you that easily.

In my sleep.
Between the hours of twelve and one,
You came to me, you were hot,
So very hot, so arousing,
While a Stateless voice sang,
I think I inhaled you,
You linger behind my eyes,
I feel you in my bloodstream,
We touch, hold each other,
Body against body, so natural,
Your scent threading the air,
Yes, I think I inhaled you,
While a Stateless voice sang,
We snuggled up close, hmm,
So very close, caressing, ah,
You look up, I see you smile,
We kiss, so sensual,
Then you are gone,
But I felt you, yes,
Or imagined you,
Dreamed you,
In my sleep.

©Paul Chafer 2014

Through my continued journey in life
I’ve heard these words over and over
Reeling out of unwashed mouths (mine inclusive)
Ringing like unanswered noisy telephones
Spoken with little consideration
Voiced with no conviction whatsoever!

How could such passions be love?
When they so easily become hate
At the slightest provocation

How could such evil be love?
When you seek to harm me
Just because I sought another’s attention

How could such illusions be love?
When it quickly evaporates
At the mere sight of one more attractive

How can such madness be love?
When you turn violent
At the barest confrontation

How can such wickedness be love?
When you would rather see me dead
Than in the hands of another

How can such hypocrisy be love?
When you can cheat on me at will
And crave my faithfulness and loyalty

How can such lust be love?
When all you want is ***
Or some other material gain

How can such deceit be love?
When I am only a means to an end
Some tool to be used and discarded

How can such intolerance be love?
When you cannot forgive me
For erring, as expected of human nature

How can such selfishness be love?
When the only reason you care
Is for your perceived desired benefits

How can such scam be love?
When it only depends on good looks,
Fame, power or influence…

The purity of this precious idea
Has been grossly adulterated
By our wickedness and evil schemes

Its divinely intended beauty
Has been stained to triviality
By our spur-of-the-moment,
Superficial quest for gratification
Of unholy desires…

From my naïveté and observation,
There is no love among mortals
What we have is at best,
Mutual understanding and respect

For only the bond of a mother,
To her offspring- born and unborn
Comes close to a faint idea of love…

Not to mention,
The unconditional love of God!


© Raphael Uzor

The problem with poetry
and it's iterations within our
generation is that we have
grown soft as writers.
We are so worried about
if she thinks about us, or
whether he really loved us.
Or if our hearts will ever be
fixed again. It is disgusting.
Have some spine, comrades!
**** yourself a ****** on the
floor of the cheap motel.
Drink the bourbon out the bottle
until you puke your mother's
homemade meatloaf into
the kitchen sink. Hell, do
whatever needs to be done,
let's just stop with the
dramatic, self righteous ****.
She ****** someone else
because he was better, he
doesn't love you because
he doesn't have to. Your
heart was never broken.
Have a drink with me and
let's go out, give ourselves
something real to write about.