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.

Thanks  everyone  for  all  your  support.
I  cannot  keep  up  with  all  the
notifications.
It,s  truly  wonderful.
Thanks  very  much  again..

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

All of his letters ended in goodbye
instead of to be continued

someday we're all going to die
my brother, he would say

now he's got me saying the same
words like the moon and darkness
that only we could hear

he'd listen to the blues and sip whiskey
until morning, then wake me
from my sleep, tell me to go out

and cut the weeds
growing up around the stone
angels in the field.

I have compared my love
to the lazy, the no good
and to crazy girls of the past,
to my first truck, to a spell,
a moth and a bottle, to the hell
bending moon, if you could tell,
and to a Captain - if not a ship,
and to ways you'll come to know
too soon, but I have never, ever
compared my love for you.

she said her father was jewish and proud of it.



they visited the synagogue, i know where it

is. i stood outside.



he was a green grocer, broke his back, her mother

looked after him.



she a seventh day adventist, i went with  her sometimes,

on saturdays.



i never met her father, he died early.



she said.



sbm.

it is over 3k, not very far. the car stopped.

she offered me a lift. i explained that i

was out walking, not lost in the middle of

nowhere.



as she thought.



we smiled.



she lives in the garden cottage near the big

house, while i live behind the church.



a different village.



meanwhile those on the precipice

moved slowly.



she drove on while i turned and went home.



it continued raining.



sbm.

she rang me. did not leave a message.



later,

i dialled 1471 and rang her back, there

may be a charge for this.



i did not leave a message.



at 6pm she rang and left a message.



i was washing my feet. do you think



that there is a meaning to life?



sbm.

i did not write yesterday.



i delivered the case, i made.

they made.



i saw a little pram for dolls.



it squeaked delightfully.



if it is not sold, when i

collect the case. i may

buy it.



sbm.