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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
André Morrison Jul 2018
His best friend was his subconscious
To request an audience with his accomplice
Loneliness he had to accept, alone he was,
I digress. Nevertheless, he kept his pain in silence
Feeling trapped in his own head, like a mental asylum
Instead of unconcealing the sorrow
He kept things unsaid, so his state of mind would remain unread
And would embed the notion that life has stopped dead
And would endlessly pray for a better tomorrow
If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it make a sound?
If not, is a lonesome man who is crying in pain not exist because no one is around?
The thought of waking up to another day of isolation
Drowning in his misery, he needs help to breathe
Rehabilitation would be as simple as love and attention
To help give this man a life where he can believe
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
To those that inquired: pure if unintentional voyeurism. It happened rather quicker than the verses indicate; I'm not sure I could have looked away even if I'd chosen to. Intensity is always compelling! They say that 'character is how you behave when no-one else is watching'.  Not sure what that says about them. And about me...
rook Oct 2014
the chill of a metal bench soaks into my skin,
fibers of denim unconcealing
can you see my bones?
hoarse and quiet and barely there,
your voice is a ghost
the residue of something that once lived and is no longer
there.

high fives, fist bumps, live long and prosper:
thin hands that have seen it all
all except the warmth of yours
of a link that i never expected
to feel, or to feel so
empty

knees, rough and bruised from kneeling
from sitting in uncomfortable positions
from leaning over in the emptiness of a house haunted
by someone's ghost,
though if it's hers or yours or mine
no one can say.

the firsts are the only ones we count:
lips that linger,
brushing dust and stellar remains
on the lifeless collar of this lifeless boy.
for addison.

— The End —