My head is filled with dram
After dram,
Dream after dream
And teenage girls hurry by with red hair
And red lips
Like tulips;
Holding ice cream.
Some washing their beautiful naked bodies
In rivers of red
As I sit there
Having just read
'Women' by Charles Bukowski
Over a nice cup of tea;
Whilst the Greek ochre sun
Sparkles upon
The blue sea.

©Jack Aylward,
2001

Faces were coming and going
In places
That were once always
Hard to find.

But now they fold
Within light
Upon the prisms
Of my eyes.....

'Hello faces
Fellow faces
Mellow traces
Of disguise
Your eyes
I see
Glow
From the skies'.....

Autumn hair
And summer skin

I see their light
Turn to gold
As I breathe in
Their perfumes
From the air.

Lovers eyes
And lips
Are melting
In sun
As they turn
Only once more
To burn
Lifting
The oceans
Of my heart; undone,
Sending
Ecstatic
Waves
That signal
Across
My brain.....

©Jack Aylward

Anything goes
Whether your an in and out writer
Waiting to be put back inside
The loony bin.
Or a poet on suicide watch
Or an actor looking for ***
Or a ******* wanting to
Become a teacher.
Or a nun smoking dope
Or the alcoholic pope who
Is on the run for ******.
Or the racist who works
For the salvation army
Or the Antichrist
Who is the local vicar.
Anything goes
Whether the Prime Minister
Is really a loner and drunkard
Or the neo-**** who wants
To become a Buddhist.
Anything goes
Whether I am a somebody
Who wants to be a nobody.

©Jack Aylward

First touch
First kiss,  bliss
I lick my lips
The tension releases
This feeling I feel
A sickness
This desire builds
All this touching
Still can't get my fill
Craving that look
Of passion in your eyes
Your disguise,
The satisfaction
Of friction,  sweat
Dripping between crevaces
Following the path
The moisture leaves a trail
To the bottom of the ocean
Explosion
Keep going
To the flame inside
It burns,  for you
Steady and hard
I feel this hunger
Quench my thirst
A slow and soft kiss,
First
Then it's just enough
The volcano erupts
Fall down,  bliss
It all started
With one sweet kiss

Listen, it's a beautiful thing
when distilled to its essence;
reduced to its purest form.
A paradox and a paradigm;
a paragon of perfection.
Epic in its arythmetic
progression; poetic.
Like Chinese arithmetic,
so hard it hurts. Yet soft
and exquisite, like a bubble
of love caught in a beating heart.
That place where poetry starts.