Lovers in Florence,
Red hair like matches.
I hope she lights you on fire like you did to the bridge between us.

I am watching the smoke from my kitchen window.
The smoke is green like your eyes.

Why do I envision you on top of me?

Why do I crave the feelings we might both feel?

I see you in the dark lit club we frequent and I know.

I know you want me, and I made it obvious that I want you too.

Now follow me.

Follow my voice.

Are you ready?

Bodies touching, hearts beating, lips pressed against each other.

Arms wrapped, legs intertwined.

My skin interlaced with yours.

Warm breaths on your neck, irresistible whispers in your ear.

Count the thrusts with me.

One, your body convulses

Two, you gasp

Three, you call my name

Four, you grip the sheets

Five, you shout something inaudible to the stars above

Six, you whisper a word of gratitude

Seven, you thank me again with your lips on mine.



(lunarlullubies)

All my life
I sought
an angel.
And he appeared
in order to say:
"I am no angel !"

Inside the brightly painted hut
crinkle cut and candy flossed where old men dossed out of the rain and one more stain don't make no odds to Gods who '**** a deaf un',
sits Johnny Stone,
among the brittleness of skin and bone, he wears his worries and his cares away by sniffing grey hairs up his nose.
Posing every now and then for beachside surfers who,when they see this man survives amid the torture of the lies that haunt his face,move on to another place and forget they've ever seen and glad they've never known
Johnny Stone.
In this tinsel town one more Stone goes down and one more becomes the one that's trading places,revolving dreams on sunlit faces and a bigger pile of luggage cases for the dustbin men to take away
Stay at home,carve your dreams quite thinly off the bone, or you'll end up like Johnny Stone,
hungry
and all alone.

For only a few seconds
He was stood outside
Next to where she waited
In the heart of the moonlight,
Peeling back her unknown promises
Behind the hiss
Of a stuttering train
In a mystery of bleached hair,

And bright red lipstick
Tangled up in each others footsteps
On a uneven texture
In the mist
Before tossing her cigarette
Back into the
Middle of the river,

And with it
The last remaining evidence
Of the crime
They’d just committed
In black and white.

(Previously published at http://www.staxtes.com/2013/10/andy-n-of-stuttering-train-poetry.html)

It's nice to know that people
are people .... all the same
They aren't known by a colour
They're just people...all the same
It used to be that people
Were coloured...that's not right
Chinese folks were yellow
And I was known as white
A man born in Africa
Was black...and that was it
Indians were known as red
That colour doesn't fit
But now...people are people
I think it's great ...don't you?
But I cannot help but wonder
Why is it I feel blue?

Could it be love has lost its taste?

Hidden thoughts and feelings riding the fence

Trust and conversation gone to waste

Unaware of their existence

They fly through the night's bitter breeze

An unfamiliar chill reminds them

Love is not a coat one puts on in stormy weather

And anyway, it doesn't always stop the rain

Everybody has that one song they listen to all day because it is the only thing that understands their feelings.
Music is a window into an otherwise solid shell,
an escape from the walls built long ago and never broken,
a bandage to heal open wounds invisible to all but you,
a way to shout without saying a word,
a way to cry without a tear down your cheek,
a way to stop thinking without sleep,
And a way to be alone without anyone looking for you.