Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes
Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin.
Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh.
A gin-sung-dream –
Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick.

An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift
And Nature’s perfect curse.

Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless.
Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON.
Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight ,
Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies
Embrace, writing words that have their own
Music. Heard only by its two composers.

Everywhere the other wishes to be –
Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity.
Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth
As old as the ages.
A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning.
Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic
For loneliness.
Hands in hands, heart fleeting.
The perfect curse of Man
In the stroking of skin.

Later, a vague sound of water, a towel
A drawer closing – a door latch clicks.

The world floods back.
Through the curtains,
Through the drainpipes
Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns,
Aching like a hangover.
Too much gin.
The momentary tonic wears off.

Heart in hand,
Hand to head.
Candlelit premonitions return.
Heated flesh. Arching backs.
Fingers through hair…

Salty fingers through oily hair and
Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and
A singeing waxy smell makes you reel
To the window for air.
And there you are again,
In the middle of a city that knows you
More than your Alcoholic Lover,
A Melancholic Mother to all your needs,
Except the one you tried to soothe
A few hours back.
The one you pine for.
The one you lack.

Oh, this Humdrum City
Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet.
And your heart in the street
And the gin in your glass
Whenever you meet
Whoever it is that might
Make you complete…

A vague sound of water, a towel,
A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks.

Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh.

A belt buckle rings, a zip
A drawer closing, a door latch clicks.

The door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.

Am I not your root, your source?
Do I not bite into your being?
Did I not draw you from the depths of Hell,
Out into the vast light of atmospheric health
To be born of more solid stuff, oh Auburn Queen of Fall?

Before you plunged us both back
We were made of the same solid stuff, the same self.
We were one once, you and I.

I traded in God for the first you,
Shortly after time began.
I felt your eyes upon me, oh Amphetamine Queen of all I've seen,
And all the places I have been since time immemorial.
Yet now, now alas, for this grey shadow,
Once a man, would sign any Faustian pact again,
And act protagonist to any ****** Marlowian tragedy!

Tortured with optical touches
And words unsaid.
The composer of commotion strange
Inside a prelapsarian breast
Has left me fraught throughout the ages.
And still, I'd fall nine more satanic days through Chaos pure,
If it meant landing any closer to you.

Let us go back to Paradise, you and I.
What is lost can surely be regained.
Here's to new beginnings...

The next time you go running in circles daydreaming, take me with you.
Round and round and round and round
Until the sky clears, clouds disperse on the ocean,
Dancing.
On unswept autumn leaves.
On a hillside with the heavens open - soaking you to the skin.
A field of long grass in morning mist, of corn at sunset.
Flowers in your hair, linen round your shoulders, round your waist,
Freckles swimming in flushed cheeks, auburn hair
Whipping round your face. Smiling, laughing,
Round and round you race, chasing down your dreams,
Leaving normality behind. Up you soar
To dizzying heights,
Forgetting sleep on summer nights.

My feet sweat, my shoulders burn
But I am indifferent.
Nature plays around me.

Close your eyes. The last thing you see
is a white butterfly dance past the tree-line
into oblivion blue.

Bush leaves crackle above you in branches
and below you, let loose through brittle grass.

A light wind conducts a symphony in which
Each shrub plays a part.
Each dry branch, kindling ready to explode,
Itching to snap its dangerously perfect note.

Thorns whistle sharply - reeds hiss and hum.
Every breeze is a clown, taking up instruments
And jostling melodies to play all at once.
The grass rushes to its queue, dry as a bone.
Leaves follow behind in vague harmonies.

I wait on the edge of an eventful storm.
The sky is blue.
A storm of events - something big,
Behind the horizon, behind the mirage.
A rhino.
A microlite .
Electric fences, purring.

A wan nation celebrates, then groans behind the hills.
Natures orchestra sings to no one in particular

You write. The table moves rhythmically.
Sip hot chocolate. Pages scattered.
A candle burns, shadows flicker across
Your face. Concentrate.
Inky blue fingers, bic lighters. Lucky Strikes.

You are studious. Hands in sleeves.
Rosy lips, hidden behind your shawl.
Velvet jacket. Passionate.

Your hand writing is bold, round
Friendly but forceful - excited or in a hurry?
You tear pages apart. Swear, and write on.

The only blank page is your face.
You write with your eyes.
Expression impossible to detect.
What do you think?
I want to know you. How will this end?

I will learn how to read you.
Know you. Second guess you.

Where will you be? I hope.
Fingers crossed.
To be scared, terrified of repetition.

Rehabilitation.

Finally I am tired. You have worn me out.
Mind Body and Soul.
Wonderful exhaustion.
But your presence keeps me awake.
Short sighs - of love ( I hope )
Just audible over your pen scratching doggedly.

Sleeves on paper edges. Leaves rustling. Sandpaper.
Kiss me again Ridiculous Girl. You pause,
Stroke my hair - an eternity of navy blues,
Greys and strawberry cheeks.
Paint in my hair. Sugar at the bottom of my cup.
I miss you, though you sit in front of me.

Back to a world of drudgery dearth and broken dreams,
Where a fatalistic sense of eternal loss
Washes in through the door of the classrooms I sit in.
Back to the futile sham that mocks humanity
And the selfishness that engulfs all around,
Touching us all in different ways.
An angry black and bitter wave waiting to drown us all.

Three hours of nothingness,
Lost to the past,
Contemplating what is required
For this machine I live inside.

I have thought of you for five hundred and thirty one kilometers.
You have sat next to me, and passed me by the side of the track
In rich linen clothes, carrying water in yellow plastic bottles.
You have waved to me, smiled at me with bright flashing pearls,
And peered through wind tickled maize to meet my absorbing eyes.

Under shaded boughs, you have played the locals at their own game.
A game more ancient than trees,
As ancient as you.

I've seen the back of you, huddled in apathetic crowds
Standing round broken down jeeps.

Your essence flowed down the Nile towards me.
Your fragrance has breathed across townships,
Rattled past glass coke bottles on sun-kissed tables an hour before dusk,
Below ashen grills and above glowing hot coals,
Through my open window, as i race past an infinite world of senses.

You scream down dust-tracks and over sparse hills,
Chasing my soul, haunting my memory.

In my contentment, you pull me back,
Rushing through The Conditional, and all the Verbs -
Rushing- racing, loving- tasting, testing one another.

I have though about you for three thousand two hundred and eighty kilometers, but reality is daunting.
I ignore it. - we roll, instead, through long grass -
Between white sheets - through each other's hair,
In Equatorial Heat.

I lie on a faded green windowsill
And sweep eyes across lakes the size of oceans.