Some days, I can't handle it.

I want to say things. Sweet things. Promises and pardons, compliments carefully crafted, and dreams shared without pause.

Other days, I want to say things of a different persuasion.

Inflammatory things.

Things to excite.

Commands and urges, excited utterances, explicit descriptions, and whispered secrets.

My job is to write, to craft speech, and my passion is how words are used.

Is it any surprise that words strain my limits, fighting to come out?

So, if you wonder why I didn't say what was on my heart, you can know it wasn't because I didn't have the desire.

Some words have consequences.

One day, I will accept those consequences as a necessary result of showing all of me.

Today is not that day.

I arrived at my station in Kaliningrad
as if posted there by an army of desires
entering through the gate with a firm set jaw
into the guarding teeth of iron girders
driven into the soft soul of the soil
by hammering heels as bold as yours

approaching a fateful encounter quite naughty
amidst ghosts in an Eastern European night
its sights built when all roads led to Königsberg city
taking pretty daughters of frightening Prussian knights
to a military parade past the rust of heavy industry

a call to arms wrapped tight up against youthful skin
dark forces dressed in lace trimmed girdles of passion
its secret codes covered by accents slightly Russian
sounding like love slipping into a cold war assignation

you were too beautiful by half
too perfect to wear jeans
so like the uniform concrete paths
abandoned to such ghastly stains
they attract me like works of art
that someone envious of being outlasted
had to spray with swirling tattoo paint
yet the matt camouflage fades fast
while your beauty is chiseled into my days
its ageless gloss defying the wind and dust

whipping across the wonderful blocks called home
built by socialist bloc labourers whose ***** hands
must have toiled for the day you were born
and set free the naked ambition of men that yearn
for a dessert of finely moulded vision
beyond the blue vein cheese and a little wine
into warm baths steaming away the tension

which had crossed our paths with precise chains
snapped together in a demand for attention
“stop - no tourism beyond here after 5pm”
but you knew diversions locked in 'till round 2am
a stress release submitting to the pull of a comforter
gentle in the peace of the goose-down we slept in
the softness of the rattles
the worst
of your corrupters

a caged dove sits on its perch,
and listens to its own silent song.
while the veiled sun ascended to its throne of flames
and gave rise to its free wings.

***** filled the air
and all the while a new song chimed on
like a call unanswered.
as the dove listened, it began to hum;
their tunes began to intertwine.
all the while the dove thought:
that song sounds like mine