In silence I lie alone,
The lights are all out.
Gently I feel through the darkness,
with a need to touch hand to hand,
a desire to feel mouth on mouth.
The night wind moans its lonely sound,
then suddenly I'm awake, aware, afraid,
with only the cold darkness to be found.
Where is your soft hair, your sweet mouth?
These then are my thoughts of you,
In my sleep since you’ve been gone.
And though I lie here now,
Alone, awake and unwound
My love for you still
slumbers on.

Well, so long and thank you
for consenting to this visit
by the mortal life of a forlorn man
traveling outcast with only
his wicked beating heart.
Is an abject heart you understand?
Bright red frailty now bled clear,
to let you peer within,
my stained and ***** past-life

Still, may we converse a while?
Let us live within this day,
exchange a few words, shall we say.
Share some wine, taste some cheese.
If only for you to hear,
my lightly murmured pleas.
My heart would then be slightly healed,
Because fondly then could I say
Yes, truly was I here.

Fouls words have bruised the tip of my tongue
My raspy thoughts have come un-done
****** are the voices telling secretes in the night
Cold breath shimmering softly to the silver moons delight
Allow those words give birth to the darkness they did stain
When perceptions past are crushed like glass
Their silence still remains
Weeping words in a thousand ways
To wash away the pain.

I loved the sun.
And so it rained like pain,
upon my questing head.
Drops flowing down my slender stalk,
Fine steel quills drenched again,
Only to bend as flowers do,
Before the will of the wind.

Her hot blood whispers,
secrets in the spring,
whispers of her,
whisper to me.

Beneath a jealous moon,
Silky she lies,
within my dreams,
and while sleeping
the world snores softly
carried on whisper thin wings.

And out of the nebulous night,
whisper-like laughter emits,
I feel her smile,
I hear her wonder,
Her breathing, her whispers,
exciting my skin,
Always those whispers,
I listen in.…

Your hot blood whispers,
scented secrets in the spring,
whispers of you, whisper to me.
Beneath the jealous moon,
dance naked within my dreams,
while the whole world sleeps,
softly snoring on whispered wings.
But still, your lips are sun-kissed,
Be still all moments now missed,
And out of the jealous moon,
drifts silver-lined laughter,
I see your smile, I feel the wonder,
The breath of your whispers,
exciting my skin,
Always those whispers,
I listen in.…

There's a gleam of green in the sunset red,
There's a stir of blue in the quiet mood,
There's an odious glow in the dusk outside,
Tonight, I’ll have my wine inside.
There’s none but me in this empty room,
Drinking lonely in in a swoon,
And yet still I hear a ****** voice,
Where moonlight fingers the window ledge.
Shall I calm the thoughts within my head?
No, I think I’ll drink my wine instead.

Oh when will it be, oh when will it be,
That she shall come my face to see,
With wine and love and gladness.
Her lips to kiss those lips of mine
Whose lips will taste of wine,
So, I shall sip the music,
from her sweet lips.
And she…
For all
To see,
may taste the love,
and desire from mine.

Sometimes I wish for a tangerine tree
So that I could undress the fruit
like a lover, spontaneously

Sometimes I wish for an apple tree
So I could view the fruit as a friend
without need to peel, or pretend.

But mostly I wish for a walnut tree,
so other nuts could drop at my feet,
and have conversations with me!

In my mind,
I hold the words,
that life denies me.
Words sweet words,
speak love sweet love,
if only to grow wings instead,
if only to rise above.
Words are not speaking,
as songs are not singing,
words to wound,
words to please,
words to bring me to my knees.
All day I have written words.
My subject has been just that:
Words.
And I am wrong,
and the words are wrong,
and so the words I burn.
Cerebral pages of them.
Words.
Desperate I ask the moon,
to gather her moonlit words,
and those too I burn.
But a poem still remains.
Of the words, with the words,
in the flame, that is now the words,
I disdain.
So I burn the words to contain,
Those meaningless words un-heard,
my words,
and am then burnt,
by all I cannot save,
all I cannot love,
and all I leave un-made.
But the words,
the words remain the same.