Sheesh, it's Only Tuesday

Why Poem?

So many dream sets,

Descriptions of self,

Dissections of self,

Self obsession, introspection,

To compare with A N Other, or merely to reflect,

Self, against the mass.

Why not start with the mass, and compare,

With the infinite ?

Or the infinite to reflect the mass, impossible,

Even then the terms return to analogy,

Metaphysical mirrors of, self projection of

Is it possible to be someone other than fantasy ?

Untitled, as yet.

I pick up my glass,

I take a mouthful of welsh beer,

I sit back and breath smoke,

I listen to Rob quoting verse,

I hear the folk band sing,

I write nonsense, black on white,

I feel warmth from a heater,

Walt Whitman leaves Rob's mouth,

Likewise James Joyce, and a Hero.

The night is short and work nudges,

The beer is cold, the verse is not,

The tunes are pleasant and comfortable,

the pub was too.

My glass is half full,

I write black and white nonsense,

Rob listens to my writing, and hears,

A folk group likewise,

I take another mouthful of beer,

Welsh tunes are pleasant,

I feel warmer from heat,

Walt Whitman leaves the folk band,

The work nudges my glass,

I pick up my smoke and breath,

The song finishes.

 

Turn Again

The dawning of the frostiest morning

in hell

Will auger the eager survey

Of your immaculate frame

With the instrument of my

Naked eyes.

Hastily sipping at the daylight stream

Throwing dust slides through the air

Golden bedroom penetration

Sopping up the disappointed

Feelings conjured, bare,

By summery air.

Becomes a daily habit,

To taste at the outside hell,

Before regretting more

red-headed

Might-have-been moments,

With my patrons pathos & fear, we need no more names

Or sex

Or words

Or bodies.

Riding this chariot, headlong,

Through all self-worth.

Time Spending.

Listening to happy happy

Radio force in your musty room.

Mind's eye/camera pans about,

Shifting scenery in shadowy, dry-iced,

Smouldering glances, pouting dancers.

And that faint smell, of doubt.

Cars in the filmic background,

Lights on the sickly stained ceiling,

And floating past that moment....

We arise to catch fallen glimpses

The music box chocolate box

The stinky fag-end pizza box,

And sticky smoky hair.

"Put a tape on." Someone shouts,

But what ? Who ?

Forced me to turn to really see you.

Forced me to force myself to turn to really face you.

And the beautiful memory is awake,

Never lost, discard discordant dream,

Never ever just what it seems.

And at 3.30 on a sunny Sunday afternoon

The whole game is abandoned again.

 

The Answer.

Because it was there.

The challenge is countered,

Turned awry and dismissed.

The defender is unmarked,

Clean and virginal.

Storm cloud rises, and close,

Humid backroom decision time.

Sound of nearby machinery,

Clattering and production line repetition.

The challenger circles and waits,

The black storm won't choose sides.

So why did you do it ?

Why did you have to ?

Because it was there.

 

The Eye Trek.

The delicate, living, perfect throat,

Lends direction to my vague, rogue stare,

And my eyes slide on that pure surface,

In slow-time, real-time, they drag down.

Passing choker, and pendant,

Through flawless acres of fragrant, white velvet.

My covetous glance catches the woman.

Whole, complete, in totality.

Eyes flutter, and cross from floor to wall,

To pictures, to photos of youth,

Photos of fountains, and things,

And to my legs, settling momentarily,

And to my face, and my name.

I hold the accidental gaze,

And the moment strides past,

Past her choker and pendant,

To where we should both react.

My lips move, to round the words,

Round words of wrestling meaning,

My eyes sink into that perfect skin,

Into the depth of longing and owning,

In real-time, in four-time, they drag down,

To bird-hands, loose in the lap of luxury.

Essential instruments of comforting, erotic,

Precision mandate for this night,

And I reach out with luminous desire.

My hands slide down her vague arms,

Then to pendant, and young-girl breasts,

Of wisdom, and ancient amber traps,

Resinous moments as we contact in electric-syrup,

Guilty second vaporises, as I photograph her sex,

In my minds camera, I witness my failure,

To back away, retreat from inevitable escape,

And capture, wrapped in her perfume,

Sent to trap my humble eyes.

Tradition.

Living the lie

Laying the lady

and servant

Besides ideas of

Tradition.

Then the moving picture

Of what you were before

You became my conscience.

Then the moments of last doubts

And unconvincing kisses

The chaste loves.

Living my lie

I laid the lady

And her servant

My servant by

Tradition.

It really is, only Tuesday.

The wheel goes round, you catch up with some stuff, some stuff leaves you, some other stuff builds up....


Occasionally you might pat yourself on the back, metaphorically, as you've achieved things you were aiming for, and then there's that all encompassing sense of idiocy when you realise there were so many other options, but you are then left wondering about scale, and perspective.


It's really only Tuesday, the rest of the week still has potential........ The weekend was pretty three-dimensional, as it were, but never quite enough time to sleep.....


More catching up in this post, new stuff soon, promise!