i just don't feel like smiling
but i can be nice
sometimes
it's august
used to be july
stating the obvious
isn't a crime
neither is smiling
once in a while
take a look
inside my mind
you'll see how
august
turns to july

my lover equates me with my favorite instrument;
running his fingers down the strings of my flesh,
building tension and release as he sees fit.
the movement of our lips almost quantized
to match each other’s harmony.
every taste he acquires from me is
another texture added to his collection of sounds.
I want to let him know
that he can learn me to my very core
and play me to his heart’s content
like a cherub playing the harp
as he ascends the heavens.

Love gives you words that
cannot be expressed
only through sounds of
the human heart
and I have no words
than this, so lay
your head upon my chest
half a heart can only grant you
the eighth note

peepers close i see
dark i string the bow let fly
i hear dying sounds

VOICES

To hear ancient music in the pines
or the bright moon speaking on
a cold, wild night.
Voices flow with song and speed,
loud as a busy highway, soft
as transparent air.

Vine leaves speak in whispers,
palm fronds shout their struggles
with the wind.I eavesdrop on
the gossip of the waves as
the blue hush of dawn fills
the morning sky and gulls
recite their own mournful hymns.

So many voices translate
mintues into hours, hours
into days. So many messages
passed on in time’s quiet
mystery, and the language
of heart whispers its own
gentle secrets.

there is water
somewhere on my right
i can hear it
the gentle patter
of what must be
a delicate fountain
hidden amongst
the foliage and flowers
of freshly bloomed lilies
or falling from a feature
at the water's edge
there is a far-distant
rumble of jet engines
undoubtedly drawing
trails of vapour
across an otherwise
unblemished blue
sounds of traffic
dulled to almost nothing
a background hum
barely noticeable
even the unfamiliar
shrieking of a siren
as it passes by
cannot overpower
the drawn-out strains of violin
the rasgueado strum of guitar
the echoed stomp and clap of dancers
performing or practicing
in front of the monument
to a public figure
of some kind
that i would likely
not recognise or be aware of
on the other side of the park
a clock tower bell
chimes the hour
two o'clock
setting a fluttering
of birds to wing
chattering on the breeze
the seemingly constant
pattern of clicking heels
and scuffed steps
along the nearby path
tell of an exhaustive
cosmopolitan life
a dog begins barking
as i open my eyes
reminding me of home

heavy air,
a body beside me,
it's face buried in a pillow, resting
the two of us like sprawled starfish
on a sea bed of blanket

here we lie, centered in our narrow room,
a room made bright by the single skylight above,
clouded  

the following forming the soundscape of this moment:
- Sam's breath, my breath
- a pair of bluebottles buzzing and bumping into the walls
- an itch every now and then of sunburned skin, a leg brushing itself against the sheets
- a distant Tristan singing songs to his daughter down in the kitchen

there is a bucket with sick in it
there is a ***** laundry pile
there is a red, sun cream stained bikini hanging on the door handle
there are two clean, white towels and
two holiday cameras: the first's film already finished, the second with a little yet to go

Maybe we'll go to the beach
Maybe we'll go to the town or discover
a new town or ride our bikes out again until we find somewhere just right

the day has so much promise and
I have so little I have to do
but lie here and be grateful for time