Tag Archives: love

That Girl, Fanny

You don’t turn up in an

online search as you

surely would if you hadn’t

died at –what -21, 22?

Forgive me, I’ve

forgotten your birthday, along with

so much else lost in the

long life you didn’t have, but

(and this would make your Roman nose

wrinkle with amusement)

you have never been forgotten in

all those long years that have been

empty of you.

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Extreme of Consciousness

I wonder what will o’the wisps will

grace my last extreme of consciousness?

My mother’s breast, or the

push against for a day

playing on a birchen hill?

A first kiss? But which one?

Whose? That virginal,

immediate, desperate one or

that which reconciled life?

The first fathomless stare of a

newborn? Or the sly complicit

smile of the grown child? That

first tentative touch? The satiation of

good sex? The hand grasped in

night’s desires and terrors? That last

damnable disagreement?

Will you mind if my

mind wanders back to my

first kiss or rolling down a

birchen hill or my

mother’s breast?

Rust

A slight metallic taste on your skin
in the sweat of your body after sex
took me back in my sleep to the docks
and the inspiration of ships and deep water.
You were with me there, a shadowy figure,
and you led me to where she stood
watching a single-stacker tying up, absent,
eyes fixed on the waterline and the greasy trickle of a bilge.
We didn’t speak, just watched as the elegant iron
rusted slowly in the corruscating sea, rotting
as our love did, beneath sight and out of mind until,
it’s back broken, it sank in some deep.

Waking in the night, I didn’t know what to say.
I doubted you had spoken, knew she wouldn’t listen.
An ocean floor lay about that dark room
and somewhere far above a bell rang, beyond my hearing.

Calmer Sutra

The house clicks and creaks as things

warm or cool, just like our

old bones crack and growl like

icebergs calving as we try to

contort our recalcitrant bodies into

The Beast with Two Bad Backs.

Anaesthesia

We so anaesthetize dying that

family and friends may as well be at a

pre-Funeral, unable to touch and

talk, reminisce and laugh through

what might be pain but may

also be love’s last kiss,

abolishing last words

famous or not.

A Simple Act

After so long of course you can

irritate sometimes just as I can be

your irritant but today we met

one of the two pearls that are

products of our joint irritants and later

walking London’s sticky streets we

made each other laugh and

forget the press of problems by the

simple act of holding hands.

Hearts

My heart goes out to hearts

caught in branches on a cold night;

caught waiting on a

street corner for a

car that won’t come; caught

watching the ice melt in a

bought drink that will

never be drunk; caught between

transplants not knowing which

soul to beat for; caught

hoping, caught dreaming;

caught in the act of

catching cold.

Knowledge

When, at last, I didn’t know her,
when that last thin
thread of memory
snapped, loosing the catch of
forty years of intimate knowledge to
slap and slipper on the hull,
no longer knowing me she gave that same
sweet, shy smile that once made me
so much want to know her.

The Lost Thing

The search for the lost thing turns the

house upside down: drawers are

tipped out, bins rifled to their

mucky depths, papers

stupidly shaken; every step taken

retaken, reconsidered, was it

lost then? was it there when

that happened? Then, usually, the

lost thing turns up where it

always was and we laugh at our

forgetfulness, ignoring the

upside-down house and all the other

lost things within it.

Amor Vincit Omnia?

We want love to be the

centrifuge of life, spinning the

scoria into oblivion, leaving

only purity behind, but

design flaws, outages, our

inability to follow the

simplest instructions means the

shit keeps seeping back into the

autoclaves of our hearts,

spoiling everything.

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