Wild dreams
consume the night
all teeth and tongue
rough mustache
on warm skin
hands seeking
once secret places
now a sanctuary
where love
and pleasure
intertwine

I wake hungry
for your touch
craving midnight
fantasies made real
but my bed is empty
no point in lingering
this morning
I settle for hot coffee
nothing more
to sweeten
Sunday

these Sunday mornings feel like endless seas
I’m slowly floating toward the horizon
immersed in bluish mist through which
the rising sun sends warming rays

sleepy I gaze through frosted window panes
     there is a world out there
yet somehow all that I can see
are hazy shapes of luscious breakfast items
set upon the table beckoning
together with the morning papers
for me to settle down and eat and read
     without time’s breath upon my neck
no need to hurry   jump into my clothes
rush out and try to catch the bus

the news is terrible as usual
but somehow less important than on other days
whether the stocks are high or low
abroad   at home   the dollar falls or rises
affects me moderately at best

it seems a lazy morning spawns a lazy brain
noises of busy-ness seek access here in vain
headlines are read without concern and soon forgotten
all systems are content with letting go
and feel besotten with the prospect of a pleasurable day

     nice picknick on the common green
     a game of badminton to have some exercise
     delicious dinner at my favorite restaurant
    
night comes much earlier than you surmise
on your way home you see the half-moon rise
you vaguely wonder where the day has gone
before you rest your head after no work well done

When today's burden weighs you down-
To the bottom of Hell's ground.

Know that I will be waiting on the bay,
Wishing for Sunday.

I've spent too much time on Twitter
And now I've been in a dither
I haven't been writing
Let alone anything exciting
So this really bad poem
Was the only thing flowin'
Please don't ask, "What's with her?"

he uses Monday to Saturday
to change the world
and uses a single Sunday
to change mine

It could have been a Sunday when the first glimpse of my unknown future would make itself known.

He was that mystery you never solve. The Nancy Drew case that kept you awake as a kid. The unknown if aliens are real or not. The uncertainty of who built the pyramids.

He was the first morning light and the darkest sunset you can imagine. His mind swayed from good to bad and bad to worse more often than not. He was the calm before the storm. The rain before the hurricane.

It could have been a Sunday when my life decided to take the turn down the wrong alley way on the middle of the night for him.

He was the softest linens on a freshly made bed. He was the rough hands of a man who worked hard. He was the dream I couldn't remember until you said the one word that brought it all crashing back. He was nostalgia and memories.

But he was different.
He let things change him and his past caught up with his future.
He let me change.
And my past caught up with him.

And maybe it was a Sunday... I can't be too sure when my future became uncertain.

On Sunday I find myself cursed,

By the drink I had last night,

My head it pains, like frozen rain,

My eyes adverse to to light.

Tyre tracks that lack definition
a premonition
a danger
for the lone desert ranger.

Oranges,
I peel them like grapes into indistinct shapes
and the sweet of them roll off my tongue.

In the tracks looking back where there's nothing but dust
just as I knew that there'd be
the thought and the smell of these fruits give me hell,
I wish that I'd stayed out at sea.

I switch on the TV to watch serial killers being murdered, it's realistic though untrue and I sit through several commercials for powders that wash whiter although not on black socks.

Rocks in my head
oranges in bed
and dust in my eyes
a plate of fries for my tea (advertised on TV)
and each day
it's the same thing for me.

As the hour draws steadily near,
The cold chilled spine from unknown fear,
As Sunday goes, Monday appear,
The weekend's dead, we shed a tear.