"mahler" poems
SUMMER MARCHES IN
(Movement no. 1)
It comes crashing down
like doom.
A martial fanfare
begins a long conversation
questioning fate,
arguing for the human condition,
and for death's open invitation,
which we dare not deny.
WHAT THE MEADOW FLOWERS TELL ME
(Movement no. 2)
Their blooming voices
are oboes and lush violins.
The sun is surely brassy bright
in the sky above.
Radiant alpine flowers
and woodwinds
from deep within their burrows
make the case
for a music well tended
and serenely fed
by sweet springs emerging from the depths
here below.
WHAT THE CREATURES OF THE FOREST TELL ME
(Movement no. 3)
The life force
tends to run amok.
Yet things do not fall apart,
the center still holds.
And though it is mundane -
pedestrian, at times -
we cannot deny the joy in this life,
nor do we wish to.
But know, traveler,
that submerged in every caldron of joy
is a small *** of darkness.
And it will find you
or you will find it -
not only because it is fated,
but for the sake of your sanity.
WHAT MAN TELLS ME
(Movement no. 4)
Here darkness sings.
Again the plucked string.
O Mensch!
You tell the tale!
You take this story
back to the mountain.
A woeful tale you bring,
but it is gilded with joy.
A chorus exalts your condition.
Deep is its grief,
but joy is deeper still.
WHAT THE ANGELS TELL ME
(Movement no. 5)
Bimm Bamm
Bimm Bamm
the children's choir
sweetly intones.
And what, pray tell,
do Angels have to say to us?
I've heard about love
I've heard about emptiness
I've heard about absence
without presence,
about nothingness and the void.
But I have never heard such singing!
WHAT LOVE TELLS ME
(Movement no. 6)
Sweet the air we breathe.
Pleasant the sights before us.
Words are stilled,
anxious thoughts banished.
There is nothing on Earth
or in Heaven
that disputes this sweet resolution
all the parts made whole
Nothing that could possibly
speak against it
(though French Horns will have
their interests heard).
But here it is.
The end.
O Mensch
come to your last and best
resting place.
Also sprach Gustav Mahler.
May 25, 2016
May 25, 2016 at 9:19 PM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe should and aught
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 4:38 AM UTC
Moist and monochrome, clouds are gathering
On a Sunday afternoon.
Look up idly from my browsing, at the building 'cross the pool
Winds picks up, the monsoon breezes
Lick at the curtains twelve floors up
On the terrace, woman standing
Arms outstretched, grasp the rail
Legs stressed back, footloose in sandal
Lightly muscled, slightly formed
Kimono slips from lighted shoulder, designer ****** strawberry brown
Fabric glides across the hip-line
Revealing all to me below
Wearing nothing on the landing
Hint of shadow, ***** mound.
From the sliding doors behind her
Steps a man not quite unseen
Waist encircled in one movement, undergarment stripped away
Rigid stillness then the thrusting
Tension mounting at the breath
Woman gasps the O shape forming
Through her silent, varnished lips
Mahler moaning on the ITunes
Waves are forming, silent sound
Thrusting, busting, flexing, ******* arching back crescendo reached
Sun comes out, just at that moment
Roads diverging in the wood
Disconnecting, and uncoupling
Might and maybe, aught and should
Trembling fingers, taught in temper
Blink the eye and pop the top
Shaking hands that hold the taper, to the unformed smoking spliff
**** the wreaths in, breathe the thought out
Bottle clinks across the teeth
Unbelieving, unconcealing
Unrelieving, unreleased
Apr 23, 2013
Apr 23, 2013 at 6:15 AM UTC
Shrove Tuesday. Meet me after school.
She had scented breath. Gordonstone
Said he’d ****** her. There was that
Look in her eyes. Her sister never had
The same way about her. The parents
Both taught at college. The father loved
Mahler and smoked a pipe. The mother
Had a taste for S&M; and listened to
Country and western. Meet me by the
Bandstand and come alone. Bud went
Along alone. The afternoon sun shone
Weakly down. She was standing by the
Pond watching the swans. The parents
Are out tonight she said how about you
And me? Bud said what about you and me?
The parents’ bed we could if you like
She muttered. Bud wondered where her
Parents were going and would they be late.
Ok he said. They walked through the park.
The sun was going down. Her sister was out
With some schmuck at the movies. She took
Bud into the house. He smelt wealth and
Comfort. Want a drink? she asked. Bud sipped
At the father’s scotch. She gulped down the
Mother’s gin. How about you and me going
Upstairs to the parents’ bed? Bud swilled the
Whisky around his mouth. The cheeks burnt.
The tongue almost died. She took his hand
And climbed the stairs. The carpet was soft
And deep. Bud thought of *** most days.
Bud dreamed of *** She undressed. Removed
Each item like some downtown stripper.
Bud once saw his mother’s naked ****
He was off food for a week. Come on in
She said. Bud removed his shirt and pants.
The curtains were flowered. He climbed into
The parent’s bed. Maybe Gordonstone had.
She lay there inviting him in. There was country
And western music coming from the huge hifi.
Bud hoped she didn’t have her mother’s taste
For S&M.; She hummed some country song.
Don’t be long she said. Enjoy she whispered.
There is no tomorrow. You’re a long while dead.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 3:01 PM UTC
Went to visit grandparents, decided I never want to be old
I have trouble keeping up as it is:
Technology is too fast paced
Phones are too small (and who needs one when they’re seven?)
Movies have too many explosions
All my music is from at least twenty years ago
While I’m planning my eternal youth I forget I take up space
I feel four hard smacks on the rear
Apparently I was blocking an elderly woman’s wheels
“Sorry for the love tap, you were in the way”
I wasn’t sure how to feel
A bit violated perhaps
It might have been, well, kind of nice
If she didn’t predate Christ
For lunch we sat with a kind couple
Marjorie and Phil
She wore all brown, with a necklace of whittled wooden giraffes
He was dressed like a lumberjack, pants mid-torso, flood-ready
We talked about a few things…
Mahler symphonies, Latin, obscure mountain villages
Both of them seemed perfectly content
You know, old age doesn’t seem so bad
As long as you have someone to share it with
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 7:50 AM UTC
Movement no.1
Andante con moto
Farewell.
I am leaving you
with the sweetness
and the sadness
of every creature on this earth
draped over my shoulders
as a shroud
We rest now
before the final struggle
looking down upon our lives
from a precipice
The wind calls up
a faint sound
a song
of healing
as resignation
So bring forth the dirge
let dogs and oboes
cue the horns
as we embark
upon a tender struggle
We are whipped back
and forth
between grief and glory
in this life
an indifferent life
lush with raw power
But thankfully
at the end of every day
there is sleep.
Movement no. 2
Im tempo eines gemächlichen Ländlers. Etwas täppisch und sehr derb.
Dance returns
and goes mad
Who could lift a leg
that high?
Not I.
The music careens
off the walls
in a dissonant minuet
of the hours
The clenched teeth
of each and every minute
grind here
as if time itself
took heel
and made a sparkling trace
across the pines
of this exalted floor of dance.
Movement no. 3
Rondo Burleske: allegro assai. Sehr trotzig.
A music major's delight.
Fugues against fugues.
Dense contrapuntal figures
and sarcastic counterpoint
shouting out
from the back of the class.
And then
just love
confused perhaps
but real love indeed.
Movement no. 4
Sehr langsam und noch zurüclhaltend
The violin
noblest of instruments
takes its place
In bitter sorrow
life soon lost
the fruit of the tree
is extinguished
the promise of green days
burned by drought
All is withheld.
There is peace at the end
but no joy
the abyss is only silence
and a taut string
connecting us
to eternity.
Jul 14, 2016
Jul 14, 2016 at 10:47 PM UTC
What does infinite longing
sound like?
Where is the vault that holds
the seed corn of sadness?
And how can we mute our fear
when the barred owls in these
dank woods sob in perfect
sympathy
with the night?
Here
the tense oboes find their range
silence pervades their thoughts
the drum marks a beat
while the string section weaves
a hieroglyph of grief
and resignation.
This symphony is called
the song of the night
and night proves to be
full of whispered life
rustling leaves
and the courage to face it.
But night is not synonymous
with darkness.
Its ways and means
harmonize with the light
render half the whole
parcel our sleeping hours
into dreams
and fitful moments
beneath the staring moon.
In the morning
a plaintive bird song
stirs thought
brings the sun into the east
and wraps night's dreams into
a silk handkerchief
where dreams are tightly bound
and forgotten.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 9:42 PM UTC
You were lovesick over her,
but she was out of your class,
on a different plane,
different ideas and values,
but you were lovesick over her.
Wrote her too many letters
over too few days
when she was away,
and you so lovesick
you couldn't eat
or relax or read
and only music fed
your hunger for her.
She brought you back
a postcard
by some Russian artist
and you pinned it
to the door of your room,
and had the one photograph
she gave you framed
like some work of art
and you'd gaze at it
listening to Mahler,
looking towards
a future with her
you knew you wouldn't have
not in a thousand days.
You were lovesick over her,
over her bright eyes
and long hair,
and those tight,
but small *******
you never saw,
but hoped to,
but never did,
just the outline
propped up behind
the jumper or tee shirt.
You were lovesick over her
but she went off
and the sickness eased
and went away
and you never saw her
another day.
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 2:43 AM UTC
Take me, Miss Pinkie says,
take me. A plump bundle
of pinkness, dyed hair, grey
at the roots, the blue eyes
whiskey soaked, the mouth
open, the naked skin, the full
moon flowing in. All aboard
who are coming aboard, she
says to the room, and he beside
her says, are you sure? now
of all times? yes, she says, lift
the anchor, set sail, take note
of the rough seas, the rise and
fall of the waves, and he looking
back sees moonlight on his naked
**** the sound of Mahler’s 6th
echoing from the other room,
and he sensing the high seas
and moving surf, climbs aboard,
set eyes to the horizon of bed
board and cool blue walls, and
hears the sirens sing, hears the
creak of bed and bones as he and
Miss Pinkie, on the love ship, hold
tight and smile, as it rises and falls.
Sep 8, 2012
Sep 8, 2012 at 3:17 AM UTC
Sonya in the moments free
of serving the customers
leaning on the serving bench
dark brown eyes
on you
her dark hair
pinned back
said she liked
Mahler’s 4th best
O so exciting
so full of the life
you preferred
the 5th or 2nd
but she said
no no too deep
too long
life is for living
not dozing
to long symphonies
she preferred Kierkegaard
to your Nietzsche
liked his leap of faith
his books on God
and such
you liked her mouth
small
like rose petals
stuck together
her ears visible
and so lickable
(if ever permitted
to do so)
that Nietzsche
she said
went mad
think it
was the pox
stuck his *****
in some whore's hole
she stopped to serve
a customer
all smiles
and politeness
that butter
wouldn't melt
in her mouth
kind of thing
you carried paint
up from the basement
and shelved it
in colour order
thinking of her
laying in some bed
Mahler's 4th
blaring out
she putting chocolates
one by one
into her small mouth
and licking
her fingers
afterwards
so sexily
one leg
slightly lifted
the other flat
and you imagined her
yakking off
about the Kiergegaard guy
her other hand
not stuffing chocolates
in her mouth
resting over
her ***** hairs
you read Dante?
she asked
having served
the customer
with a smile
and politeness
yes the Purgatory
you said
that is where men belong
she said
unless they take
the leap of faith
she leaned
on the serving bench
eyeing you deeply
what you thinking about?
she asked
how well you serve
the customers
you lied
thinking of her lips
pressing against yours
her tongue meeting yours
in her mouth
of her body
her hair
her eyes
that is why
I am here
to serve
she said
but she was serving you
differently
inside
your young man's head.
Dec 21, 2013
Dec 21, 2013 at 3:15 AM UTC
Miss Pinkie
(she dropped the Mrs
when the divorce
came through)
liked to put on
Mahler’s 1st symphony
when he came around
and he brought
the bottle of scotch
and when she let him in
she said
ah Professor
you have brought
the *****
I shall slip into something
more comfortable later
and she closed the door
behind him
and followed him
up the passage
her flip-flops
flapping behind him
like some penguin
and already he could hear
the opening bars
of the Mahler
as he entered the lounge
and smelt her perfume
and she took the bottle
and he said
I’ve selected the poems
for my first book
and she said
from the kitchen
o good
you’ll have to let me
read them before you
send them off
sure
he replied
sitting on her sofa
remembering where
he’d made love last time
and how he almost
fell off the sofa
but clung onto
her ample flesh in time
and how she laughed
and said
man overboard
throw him a lifebuoy
and as she came
with two glasses of the *****
and set them down
on the table
she sat down next to him
and kissed his cheek
and said
thanks for the *****
and for coming
and hey loosen that collar
this is no funeral
and her fingers undid
his shirt collar
down half way
and she rubbed his chest
and hairs
isn’t that better?
sure
he said
and leaned forward
and sipped the *****
already Pete in the pants
was stirring
and she said
I like this Mahler piece
it does things to me
and he listened
to the trumpets
and violins and those cellos
and sipped again
and her eyes widened
and her lips
came down on him
and he lay back
on the sofa overwhelmed
and like a drowning man
opened wide his arms
and waved
but none came
to rescue
no lifeboats set out
no one in sight
just him and Miss Pinkie
and Mahler
and the long hot night.
Aug 31, 2012
Aug 31, 2012 at 3:37 AM UTC
Chana, having made love
with young Baruch, went
to get more wine. Did she
need to get another? She
thought, she was old enough
to be his mother. The LP of
Bruckner he had brought
still played on the hifi; she
preferred Mahler’s fifth.
The kitchen light had a
mellow glow. She poured
more wine into the two
glasses and returned to
the bed. He was laid there
like some young prince,
proud and youthful, head
full of ideas, morals gone
to the wind, seemed happy
to have had her and sinned.
She put down the glasses
and climbed into bed. Him
and his Marxism, she thought
as he talked of Das Kapital.
She placed her hand on his
pecker, life enough yet,
stirred, moved. She could
smell the *** in him; the stir
of a young stallion. Her long
ago husband was never like
this even in his youth; she
was well rid of him, him and
those airhostesses, those
whom he said he had quite oft
and where. She smiled at young
Buruch lying there wine in hand
talking of a revolution that would
never come, his pecker stirring,
his words becoming slurred with
the taking of wine. That first time
he had her on the sofa; oh, that
took her back some. He drained
his glass, put on the side. He was
young enough to be her son, she
mused, watching him stir and
prepare, her young stallion with
hazel eyes and dark brown hair.
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 2:04 AM UTC
As you took
old Mr Wheale
to the lavatory
and sat
and watched
he didn’t fall
or slide
you recalled
the night before
lying in Mrs Tuba’s bed
the curtains drawn
against the night
the street lamps
shining through
the bed soft and wide
and she turning up
the Mahler 5th
and you thinking
of the parish priest
and what he’d say
if he could have seen you
there smoking
naked and bare
the book you’d bought
on the side
the Solzhenitsyn
gulag book
she wanted to read
the dresser
and chest of drawers
and photos
on the side
nearly done
Mr Wheale said
breaking through
your thoughts
his cataract eyes
staring into space
and you remembered
Mrs Tuba coming in
the room
dressed in her pink
dressing gown
open down the middle
her big ******* inviting
her big blues eyes
smiling
turned up
the Mahler
she said
bought these two whiskies
and she laid them
on the side
and climbed
into her bed
I’m done
Mr Wheale said
and so you did
what was needed
and helped him dress
and on his way
his metal frame walker
shuffled along
the passageway
the music of Mahler‘s 5th
a memory
Mrs Tuba
gone to sleep now
you guessed
the whiskies drunk
the *** forgot
a new day entered
the window on your right
swift it had gone
that ****** night.
Apr 19, 2013
Apr 19, 2013 at 3:25 AM UTC
A female Buddha,
the way she sat, not
love making, that some
other. Cross-legged,
he remembered her,
on that blue sofa, the
Mahler playing from
her hi-fi, her oval face,
soft features, that loud
laughter, the Glaswegian
accent cutting through
the attempted English
tones. The bottle of whisky
opened, the glasses filled,
supped, sipped or what
ever the word is, it happened.
It’s no good taking some
people out of the slums,
she said, you need to take
the slum out of the people.
She looked then nothing
like the former nun she
had been, he thought,
perfume invading the nose,
her hair piled in some out
of date Beehive, some
French queen prior to
revolution, she sat, glass
in hand, other plump
hand toughing his thigh,
rubbing her fingers up
and down. She wanted
to stir his pecker, wanted
motion through his jeans.
He listened to Mahler,
gazing beyond her at the
painting on the wall, that
tat she collected. Her
hand rubbed higher, her
soft tones suggestive, her
talk of slums and slum
dwellers put aside. An
evening of *** ahead, in
bed or on the sofa, with
the female Buddha, her
plump ******* thighs,
arms, maybe lost there
amongst the folds of flesh.
She despised his Marxian
philosophy, loved his
****** prowess, his proud
perfect pecker. He loved
her whisky, her soft to
touch skin, her spread legs
to allow him in. The female
Buddha gone now, her
heart gave out, he was told,
and looking back, years after
years, his youth misspent
at times, too much *****
*** and moral lack, he had
moved on, improved, but
loved to smile and look back.
Apr 13, 2013
Apr 13, 2013 at 2:57 AM UTC
Line breaks within the piles
of weeping wombs, where the deer
and the antelope play Mozart
and polish with brooms,
when the maid has forgotten
her day off and you're left stranded,
perplexed within the certainty
of your own death, and the flowers
that were brought,
too late.
Keeping up with the cruelty
of Time is no small affair;
running ragged underneath
a vagrant moon that remains
impassive in the face of your
demise, counting backward
by tens, and the plumber has
mastered the scream of the violin.
It's better, perhaps,
to not look into the sky,
witnessing your life as it unravels
amid the flotsam of clouds
that melt like butter
with the passing of the sun,
fading like the day,
along with the failing
drumbeat
of your
own
rebellious
heart...
R.C. Mandeville
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 12:05 PM UTC
Miss Pinkie
and her son
at a bar
and I was
near to them
sitting down
in a chair
and he said
things to her
as he looked
back at me
she told me
he was in
the police force
and married
and said things
back to him
looking back
towards me
and smiling
I think he's
probably
saying to her
he's too young
young enough
to be your
oldest son
and he's right
I am young
enough to
be her son
but what he
doesn't know
or maybe
doesn't want
to know is
I've shafted
his mother
to the music
of Mahler
both of us
well sauced on
Scotch whiskey
sometimes on
her blue couch
other times
on her bed
with moonlight
coming through
her bedroom
wide window
and moon glow
playing on
my naked
rising ***
Miss Pinkie
and her son
return with
all our drinks
and sit down
I watch him
wondering
what he thinks.
Jun 7, 2015
Jun 7, 2015 at 2:46 AM UTC
Today the radio told me,
it was Gustav Mahler's 150th birthday
And Ringo Starr's 70th too.
I guess, in 80 years
Nobody else important
Was born on July 7th
How sad.
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 10:40 PM UTC
Benedict met Mrs Cleves
in one of those
out of town bars
and they had a few drinks
and she told him
about her ex and
what a ******* he was
and how he used
to mess around
with those air hostesses
(he being a steward on a plane)
and he'd even boast
how many of them
he had had that week
and Benedict listened
and drank his drink
knowing that after this
they would go back
to her place
and drink more
put on some Delius
on her hifi
and have ***
on the sofa
or maybe make it
to her bedroom
if time and passion allowed
but she talked on
about her ex
and how she met him
after she came
out of the convent
(Benedict couldn’t picture
that scenario)
all innocent and pure
and thought love
had been found
Benedict sipped
the last of his drink
noticing how her hair
was like that French queen
he’d read about
who’d had lost her head
on the guillotine
and still she yakked on
about the ex
how he liked
fast cars and women
and drank too much
and disliked
her Scottishness
or her whiney voice
Benedict wondered
what she was like
back then
before the pounds
had landed on her
before age
had begun to settled
into features
and remembered
that time they had ***
on the sofa
and they’d fallen off
( too much *****
or what he couldn’t now say)
and the downstairs neighbour
had banged up
from the room below
and she said
shut the **** up
you old hag
and all said
in her Glaswegian tones
and they lay there
on the floor
she **** naked
and he semi clothed
with Mahler’s 5th bellowing
in the background
and as he came back
from his thoughts
she was still talking
of the ex
and he wished
she'd finish up
her drink
to get back
to her place
for more ***** and ***
Jul 18, 2013
Jul 18, 2013 at 1:47 AM UTC
Outside Oslo
in the base camp
after showering
you met Moira
in the cafe
for breakfast
and coffee
she was in a mood
about the Yank girl
and having to share
a tent with her
(when she wasn’t off
someplace being *******
Moira said)
and always chewing gum
and those *******
she wears
I’ve seen more cloth
on a finger cut
she said
I’ll take your word for it
you said
she pouted
and stared at you
the finger cut I meant
you said
by the way
are you into
Oslo today?
you asked
mind if I hang along?
sure as long as you don’t
talk about the Yank
or football or Mahler
or whoever else
is hid up
in that brain of yours
she sipped her coffee
and ate her breakfast
saying nothing more
and you watched
as she ate
her eyes dark
and deep
her hair frizzed up
after the shower
her tee shirt
holding tight
her ****
and her blue jeans
hugging her thighs
as you’d like to do
later in Oslo
you toured about
the streets
saw the sights
had a beer or two
while you sat
with her
in some bar
she talking of Glasgow
and her job
and her brother
and his girlfriend
and how
she had this awful
wiggly ****
and floppy *******
and large eyes
like cow pats
soft and brown
and she laughed
and you liked it
when she laughed
it made her seem better
more human
less grumpy
less critical
and had you been
more brave you might
have kissed her
there and then
but you didn’t
you just ordered
another beer
and talked of Nietzsche
and Mahler
just to watch
her lips move
and incidentally
bore her.
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 3:25 PM UTC
I wish my imagination glistened
as it used to
I long for the rush of enthusiasm
with dreamy violins and brassy horns
of Tchaikovsky and Mahler
Where has the music gone
the tingly feeling in my chest
the excitement
now replaced by numbness
and in the midst of silence
shrill electric strains between my ears
Jan 22, 2022
Jan 22, 2022 at 12:47 AM UTC
Miss Pinkie (she dropped
the title Mrs from
her name ages ago)
lay on the sofa
and said
take me if you want
spank me if you will
and he stood
looking at her
a glass of scotch
in his hand
the music of Mahler’s
symphony number 4
coming through the door
from an outer room
she lay **** naked
her amble flesh
spread out
her hands resting
on her *******
who’s the orchestra
on the Mahler piece?
he asked
can’t remember
she said shifting slightly
her blue eyes searching him
aren’t you going to oblige?
she said
he drank back
the scotch
and put the glass down
on the small coffee table
can I sit first?
sure
she said and sat up
and moved over
to allow him room
beside her
he gazed at her
at her dyed blonde hair
at her eyes deep
like oceans of blueness
knowing she had
19 years upward on him
and all she wanted
was a few hours
of talk and laughter
and a leisurely *****
one of the old guys
died at the home today
he said
out of the blue
oh which one?
she asked
the one who sat
in his room each day
and looked out
the window
and said next to nothing
oh him
she said
think he was
broken hearted
she added
he took in
the beauty spot
on her cheek
like Marilyn used
to have years ago
so how about it?
she asked
are you ready for it?
the Mahler piece softened
some moving movement
well?
she said placing
a hand on his thigh
maybe you could put
on Brahms for a change
he said
sensing her hands
move upwards
maybe
she said softly
if you’re a good boy
the lights were low
the lights from the street
added a different shade
of glow
ok
he said
and her hands moved
and did their work
and so did his
bit by bit
time over time
the music playing on
in the background
that and flesh slapping
and the sofa squeaking
was the symphony
of a ****** sound.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 2:45 AM UTC
Miss Cleaves says,
come over,
bring a bottle,
I’ll put on some music
we can smooch to( Mahler?)
so he goes over,
picks up a bottle on the way,
medium priced,
not the top shelf,
and rings her bell.
Glad you could come,
she says,
her voice silkier
than silk,
warmer than hell.
He follows her
to the lounge,
takes off his jacket,
undoes his tie,
slips off his shoes
(new carpet).
Take a seat,
she says ,
I’ll get us some glasses,
he watches her move,
the best of all *****
he decides, glancing,
taking in,
******* in air,
sitting there.
On goes the Mahler,
the 1st, the Titan,
she said it was, last time,
the time he had
a hard on
before the 2nd movement,
had his hand
up her skirt,
feeling around.
In she comes,
swaying, smiling,
carrying the *****
big eyes,
blue like lakes,
her bust,
busting to get out,
and flop about.
She talks of work,
business doing ok,
could be better,
if only and so on...
He senses her hand
on his thigh,
rubbing back and forth,
fingers walking,
her voice yakking on,
and the music
piping through,
he thinking
of that time
she had him
do her good,
eyes shut,
seemingly blind,
taking her
from behind.
Then the doorbell chimed,
in mid game,
who the heck is that?
she said,
getting off the bed,
walking to the door,
leaving him
buck naked on the floor.
There was laughter;
about to take a bath,
she said,
to whoever.
A painting on her wall,
foxhounds, chasing a fox,
horse riders on a hunt.
He thought, laying back,
relaxing, thinking of her,
wanting her, her lovely
buttocks and ****
More laughter, more talk,
the whoever was still there,
while he lay **** naked
as mother nature
intended, bare.
That was then,
she never came back
for 15 minutes or so
and he had gone to sleep
on her bed, pillow
holding his head,
seemingly dead.
Now she's on the ball,
getting him fired up,
getting his pecker going,
smiling, music piping,
but outside there's snow.
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 3:50 AM UTC
I only feel alive in my music
Latin words flowing,
No, cascading
With a life of their own
That rush of pure joy
When I hear the harmony.
Body totally relaxed
Nothing but the music
No boys
No fear
No anger
No drama
No love
But the love of beauty
The love of being alive
My soul soars
When my voice lifts higher
My heart nearly bursts
As I feel the perfection of
Bach, Mahler, Andrew Lloyd-Webber.
Every note
Beats with my heart
Every note
Is sung with passion
Every note
Lets me live
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 5:42 PM UTC
Judy sat
in one of the seats
in the pub garden
and spoke
of the university course
she was going for
in the late summer
and you sat opposite her
watching her as she spoke
taking in her blue eyes
and her little quaint nose
and her dark hair
held back
with blue ribbons
and you remembered
the kisses
of the evening before
while she waited with you
while you waited
for the bus back to town
and how that last kiss
was held by you
all the way home
and packed away
in the mind
in that part
you keep
for good moments
and she stopped talking
and sipped her Coke
and you said
you want to be a lawyer?
yes
she said
I’ve always wanted
to be lawyer
even as a little girl
and you tried
to imagine her
in wig and gown
in some high court
cross examining
some criminal
or maybe defending one
and she said
I got that parcel
you sent me
that Mahler 6th symphony
in the box
you smiled
you shouldn’t
waste your money
on me
she said
I’m not worth it
of course you are
you replied
no I’m not
she said
but I love you
you said
I know
but although
I like you
I can’t say
I love you
as easy as you
say you love me
and she sipped her drink
and you sipped your beer
and you wondered
if you would ever hear
her say the words to you
but she never did
and so at the end
of the year
after the Christmas gift
she gave you
and the farewell kiss
you never saw her anymore
some things you want
you can’t have
no matter how much
you adore.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 8:01 AM UTC