I pour the wine, while you raise your cup
until our bodies have had enough,
that our spirit’s twist, wrung out dry,
sexed and sated; shyly truth seeps outside
of careless vessels, free once more -
unable to collide, despite this ardor.
Our thoughts clashed clandestine,
while our demeanors docile.
Your scowl, the bone beneath a smile
our rose skin kisses, turning hostile.
The quaff of a tongue, the taunting touch.
Skin chenille, beneath blankets blush.
Suddenly sensitive to the sounds of dawn,
a trash truck groans, someone mows a lawn.
Last nights dream bent around a now that’s gone.
Time has stopped, but it still goes on and on.
I’m up, you’re naked;
Every morning maunders, over-medicated.
Every house a story, every window, perspective
my window is dark, theirs, a beverage,
to fill a voyeurs empty cup with scornful slake,
set to brew when strangers wake;
having gone to bed not knowing each other,
in the morning, woken as broken lovers.
No doubt this poem creates discomfort; but for those who know me. I'm quite ecstatic - a poem seldom reflects the pure-essence of the poet. It's often a veil. But not to digress. We over-medicate ourselves too often on both the lightness and darkness of what is simply "being-ness." Not good my friends - too much sour can taste "sweet," too much sweet can taste "sour." Discomfort is a beloved friend of those seeking comfort - what is more encouraging to a sweet remedy than once in a while allowing ourselves to feel pain, anguish, doubt, fear. These are symptoms of the incurable malady of living, not dying. Poetry, as it goes in life, is sometimes prosaic... let it be. Let yourself be cold and wrap yourself in the blanket of melancholy... there is warmth in the torpor.
