The kinda words where nobody blushes
The kinda sleep where nobody breathes
The kinda *** where nobody touches
The kinda nights where everyone leaves

This kinda life
This kinda love
This kinda wondering “is this enough?”

I fail at sleeping



in a show of unconditional accusation, the reproachful slander of your hereafter,

amongst the placid hours,

I try to be the grand man, but I shake too much

unhinged by the overreach of my skeletal height

much to the delight of every unskilled whistler



tough love and rougher hate interprets the shuddering motions, as my left hand lingers

over a possibility where dreams might bring

freshly ****** flesh and afternoon tea



I barter with **** and borrow into strained relationships

awaiting the unfounded precedence of my childish brain’s

blinked silhouettes burning themselves out



crumpled and brewed, and even while tempest soaked, charcoals outnumber my pasteled ambition

this distinct morbidity, by which I call my life, lacking

in that level of consistency

that spire sponsored screams might bring



for despite the consequences of ambient respectability,

reckless maturity brings terror to the aisles

and grave duels in the carefully measured medium

of the margins



and the starving are no longer a postulate amongst the rummaged toil

but the impotent sickness of a painters earthy delivery

counterfeit conjecture hung in the resentful stench

that remains too good

for the likes of you and I

italic Sundays run with a poisonous doubt

a wronged wash in the what might have been

where we fidget like fleas on a rabbits hide

and verses drafted in the cross stitched sky

cannot disguise the well-practiced curses

with the pre-packed presumption of lilies

and static

abstract amongst the sheets

your limbs offer a confusion of choice

where context is lost

besides the arch and coil

of a tenderised neck

and that secret I shall whisper

into your ear?

two pronouns and a verb

you shall not remember

until the crystalline dew draws you clear

that it might be revealed in the heat of noon

or within the cold puddles of a rubicund swoon

as my fingers fund delight

from your long-drawn frown

wear the badge, suitor, bristling poet,
chloroform content on a surge of the old heroism,
but you could do nothing to save her back in the then
your benevolent shock impotent in hindsight
and what ungovernable intent holds sway at this time?

can the intellectual blast paint a way for a homecoming
where accused dignity might finally sleep without
the within of a star shaped wound
to emerge from behind the deep cover of an aging photograph
whence your soul's shadow smiled like a lazy fern
and the energetic child out braved the shocked Adonis

there is an undeniable whereto as your fingers blow bubbles
washed by the whether or not to further
a gentleman shall always keep his secrets passed the obituary relish
forever a disciple to his pondered heart while
the narrow prophet can only bridle at an opened conscience

while keeping the adultery at arms-length,
a good four thousand miles hence, but leaving so little space
that science cannot detect a gap,
hope is stretched across a salty segregation
whose surface offers mirror to us each
and furnishes a briny indulgence
once the barriers of taste end at our fingertips

yet, still, every morning, my **** will stink of yesterday’s bad decisions

this grind breathes a fist
of sublime roast allure
as the Nicaraguan Black Bull

surrenders it’s fat cojones
to the blade and the forced steam
fixes me, dilated,
but still only grooving at 70bpm

I feel so very disco

the caffeine and preservatives served me ill
and now the air is clear enough to hear
an echo of those angina beats

the rhythm of compressed time
where mild maturity becomes entwined
in curious calamity,

cut down, boxed up,
for all to see the choke hold
slip the sterling buckle

its teeth around your stubbled throat
and nylon stained constricted waste the
filthy lack of alibi

nights like these
when you recoil from my touch
revulsion scored deep
excuse dog-eared primed ready to go
at page 53

I fear  

that I will never again enjoy
the needful tender embrace
of a woman while I am sill able
to offer back anything less than chaste

and in some lugubrious future
if taken to task about some
or other transgression past
your accusatory “why?” requires one simple reply
“do you really need to ask?”