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Ian Watson Jul 2020
Eight days in a farm house beside the beach.
Thin walls can’t mute
The promise of navy blue one-piece.

Shucking oysters on bicycles to the beach,
joy starts as a trickle.
A gleam of happiness laying in plain sight.

I only have to stoop to retrieve it.
Yet touching it, I become golden.
Midas' curse is my promise.

Pleasure, at first skin deep, is transmuted by passion
Into a physical joy. Joy I won’t grasp
For fear it is fleeting.

Let go. Fall back. Land in its clouds. Eat the lotus
and retch
A blue dress with red eyes crying.
No shelter. I won’t eat lotus.
Ian Watson May 2019
My cup runneth over
With blood, phlegm, and feces
Let me drink from yours
Ian Watson Apr 2019
Fried chicken is fun.
Eat it!    You won't.   You are too
in love with sadness
Ian Watson Apr 2019
Stock stone still we wait
Frozen until we are sure
we heard simon says
written 2007
Ian Watson Jun 2017
So sweet, the man without hands or feet
He is the spitting image of my daughter's ideal
Tie, briefcase, portly belly
Perfectly powerful
If only I (and she) could keep this picture forever
Ian Watson Jun 2017
He is off to devour the babysitter
No need for shoes in the summer heat
No need for pants inside the house
Three steps at a time, claws awhir
Teeth aching to crunch the bones of his Brazilian prey

Sometimes I remember to move carefully around his loud, joyful willingness
Or I don't remember
And tear out a fat chunk of adventure with a stinging rebuke

But he is a T-Rex with two tons to spare
written 2007

— The End —