Bretagne in the raw.

We lie
hand in hand,
your head in my lap,
under the shade of a low tree
beside a Normandy coastline,
in a field full of
white stone crosses.

And as the wind blows
huge, silent, grey-white clouds
across an otherwise clear sky,
and the hair across your still face,
I think about how many lives were lost
how much blood and tears were spilled,
so that we two could lie here,
so that I could watch you sleep in my arms
and dream of the future
and your silent charms.

Samson

I could see clearly the
smooth pink of your lips
as they met and parted.
It reminded me of days
and of my love’s gentle sighs.
Your fingers also continued to fall
and rise and each time seemed
opaque and free.

And suddenly it was as if
love and fear and all the other
green prejudices of our minds,
that pour out on wet and windy nights,
were just droplets of rain
on a train window
and could be as easily wiped away.
Leaving only the creases
at the edges of your
subtle
brown
eyes.

The Way of the Day.

Shall we dance,
friend of my heart?
Tracing trails of silver moonlight
with the toes of our feet
and the fingers of our beating hearts.

Tempting and heavy
is the gaze
and so full of eagerness
and badly hidden innocence.
Our awkwardness is
earnest at least.

On an island in the pacific
a young girl is laid down
for the first time
and listens to the stories of the old gods
and the stars.
And a dark skinned, blue eyed boy
sets his little paper boat
afloat on the swelling tide
and watches it burn
slowly.

In the light of that
smallest star of the sea
how can we smile indifferently
and throw ourselves at the world
with hats and scarves and envelopes full of truths?

But how can we not?

Women

For you
we destroy ourselves.
Our livers, our minds,
our sense of self.
My sense of self.

Life is full of little puzzles.
And some are designed to be beaten
or broke
and some
are designed
to beat
to break.
But the really puzzling part:
each step I take away,
you take two towards.

And by the time you look down
and notice your hands are wet,
the damage is already done.

From the morning

In a dream of the world
to be perfect
and you coming over the brow of a hill
and your hair.

This is the inner of me.
The twinkle of humour
and innocence
in everyday
and the wish
of you in mine.

Tired of writing.

Why do you persist
in this
line of questioning and attention.
There’s nothing for you here.

Small talk is not a skill,
neither is undressing
yet you do it so well.

I am here for my own self worth
not for you
or to move with you in circles.

Nor am I pushing your hair back
so as to land the smallest of indignities upon myself,
to kiss your lips.
Instead to see your face,
bland and pasty as it is,
and to lose it in the furrows and creases
of my mind.

Motorbikes.

I think I know now
why I have always loved
a Portuguese night.

I had thought it may have been
the sweet lemon scent
that accompanies the darkness
after the heat of day.

Or that it was the returning
from some happy meal,
with wines and family
and warm smiles.

Perhaps, I mused, it is
that I remember sunny days
of sand and sea
and ice cream
as a child,
and I carry them with me.

But I think I know now.
It is as my eyes are on the brink
of closing to more pleasant dreams
and from some further distant street
twin engines roar
and then retreat.

Here at home
not enough people own
motorbikes.
Or at least,
they do not ride them
off into the night.

Those Nights

When your fingers and toes curl 
and you screw your eyes up tight
to get to sleep faster.
Hit by wave and wave of
anxiety and fear
in your chest and
in your back

That utter loneliness when you
throw yourself around your house
and eventually
about 4 in the morning
you fall asleep from pure exhaustion.
Too scared to keep going.

You know,
one of those nights.
I know those nights.

Cold but bright.

This is sweat and toil,
this life.

I’ve heard it said.
And so it shall be till your dead.
No time to dwell and treat
Just lay your seed then on your feet.
Tight and thorough you must be
to prevent catastrophe.
We were born to breed and feed.
So lay your head upon my sleeve
and bite and thrust and be at peace.

Composure.

I don’t want to fuck in the sand
and curl my toes in the heat.
I don’t want to taste the grit and moisture
between your teeth
or run my nails across your back,
oily with sweat.

I want to smooth down your hair
and whisper your name,
to be able to
fall in love.