Kiss me.
Afraid.
Inhale,
Become brave.
Stumble,
Go black.
Held up,
Hold back.
Focus,
Exert control.
Soft,
Nice and slow.
Stumble,
Sit down.
Stare
At his face.
Listen
To his goals.
Smile,
Wide and whole.
Feel,
Sense,
And experience.
Connect,
Speak,
Connect,
Speak.
Surrender control,
Stay aware.
Kindness,
Soft hair.
Guiding,
Patient.
Confidence
Over time.
Dominance,
Willing submission.
Exhilarating
Texture,
Taste,
Sounds.
Please,
Be pleased.
Crave,
Fulfill.
Bittersweet,
Pleased.
Finish,
Be here.
Break,
Converse.
Check,
Anxiety.
Sight
Lost to the past.
Pulling,
Bringing me back.
Relocate,
Feeling safe.
Restarting
The pace.
Deep,
Heaving.
Swirl,
Roughly,
Quickening,
Teasing,
Pleasing.
Finish,
Appalled.
Reversal,
Asphyxiation.
Lost,
Feeling everything.
Friction,
Gasps of pleasure.
Move,
Feeling in the walls.
Hard
To be quiet.
Resettle,
Somehow confident.
Place,
Move.
Pain,
Pleasure.
Repetition,
Support.
Control,
Entirely lost.
Resettle,
Pain felt.
Pain
Overwhelms.
Suffocating
Small noise.
Enjoyment,
Do what I'm told.
Resettle,
Feeling alive.
Finish,
Still unfinished.
Mindless,
Proud.
Settle,
Lie down.
Drift
Away.
Feeling
Hope for new things.

This split lip will remind me
If only for a week or so
Why I don’t like romances

that cardboard box full of my books
the suitcase that contains my clothes
will only hold my life
for a few days
while I resettle

And for an unspecified, though finite
amount of time
This record will be
Broken
And repeating
Those last few lines

But years from now I will be wondering
What was it that you said?
And in the wondering I will realise
As I run a thumb over my mouth

It doesn't matter at all.

Hijacked by the snooze button
stolen minutes slip into my sleep
to feed the dream furnace.
Consciousness struggles to surface
like a moth trapped in cold molasses.
First muttering - then SCREAMING
into the hazy space between
waking and sleeping - "Wake Up!"
subconscious philosopher stubbornly
attempts to unify all the
random baggage and jack-n-the-box
questions, into one patchwork epic.
Broadcast at the speed of thought-
in full Technicolor and 3-d surround sound.
Seeking clarity in the realm of abstraction.
Unable to interrupt - the adult self
tries to subvert with subtle
whispers of: closely persuing
clocks ticking in triple time,
floating on a sirloin raft through
piranha infested waters
towards some cold, crushing
waterfall grave.
Success sees the door open slightly.
A single arrow is loosed into
the thin rectangle of light.
Striking deep and true,
"You're LATE!"
The panic button neatly impaled
bleeds a banshee choir of sirens.
Shrieking all systems into action.
Dreams evaporate, instantly
turned to dust.
(only to resettle unnoticed
into forgotten corners)
Ashamed, the maestro
frantically conducts the
(somewhat abbreviated)
rituals of morning,
while thumbing through a
well worn book of excuses.
Is the **** coffee ready yet?

We are our favourite flowers
Steeped in a full vase
Seasons pass -
with the dipping water.

We forget  / or were not
taught. To add our own flower
food. To cut our own
stems. To cultivate our own
cuttings.

Seek not to be
crisp, divine, distinct
For it is already
apparent.

Be it if you
are fanned, variegated or needled
voluptuous or diffident
fresh or heartfelt  
Or just ****** herbaceous

We are own favourites.
We forget that to be in the vase
was a choice
For we can always resettle, reposition, repot,
for the coming season.