POEM IN PARTS

Tags

female, male, poem, poem poetry political moral, poetry, sexual symbolism

POEM
IN PARTS

your eyes
sore
from reading
so much
of my
poetry

your ears still
ringing from
when did
last recite

time to
forget the
top
find the
middle-woman

she so
appreciative of
every
subtext

my rhymes, my
rhythms

such a
subtle effect on
exquisitely
receptive parts

Advertisements

RENAISSANCE MAN

Tags

female, poem, poetry, sexual symbolism, Universe

RENAISSANCE MAN
“Deserts of vast eternity.”
Andrew Marvell

counter-intuitive it may be
but when I walk down
the road after
hearing your voice
I feel the cosmic
pull of gravity
sense the degree to which
time is stretched and compressed
according to
relativity
and therewith every
rhythm in my body, every
beat in my heart

you
are dark as the night
the stars are set in

and so many
stars, huge
blue-white stars

and pink ones, our colour,
our sensual, together colour
greater than
the Sun, our little
almost-forgettable Sun
for brightness
and for overwhelming size

in this Universe where
our connection began
eyes, mouths first and
then
every molecule

the sonnets for her
pouring out my pen
(us just
your average run-of
-the-mill dark lady

and her
a little less than word-
worthy
Renaissance man)

RECIPE FOR DISASTER

Tags

poem, poetry, sexual symbolism

RECIPE FOR DISASTER

rub two sticks together
until
go thermonuclear

no smoke without
mirror
no smoke
without fire

and where fire
always passion

the friction of our deepest antipathy
producing the ecstasy of
sweet Dionysian desire

THE MAN

The man rants and raves.
What dare I do
but accommodate him
as the TV is doing
as the TV is designed to do?

Tweep! A message arrives
on my phone: it’s her
wishing to cheer me

but the words (as those so very different ones
spewed out on the TV)
have lost their lives, their power, their meaning
they float past me, before me,
devoid of anything that can help
anything to bring a positive change

O, my caregiver
what dream have we lost, seen collapse into
electronic whisper, media fantasy?

your beautiful face
floating before me
as I turn away finally
uncouple, unlink, detach
from your orbit

my paper though, no nearer to completion
writing on radio during apartheid
and the strangely challenging, alienating
alternate-sounding world
of the science fiction programme

otherwise mirror on that
abhorrent, obnoxious
dehumanizing world

where racial logic collapses
in the face of strange conjunction, limitless possibility

possibility that
I just walk through this mirror
(in which I so often
imagined
our worlds colluding, colliding, collapsing, combining
together, if not forever, then
but for a few
delirious hours)

away from her, away
from the single-eyed, raving
racist Cyclops god, nay demigod,
of the television

into a parallel, if not indeed
universe, then at least
some stable, ungenocidal, alternate realm

where someone is writing,
is writing me (as I stand ghostlike,
peering over his shoulder
her shoulder
reading my story
being written, my tale
being told

hoping against hope
he does it differently.

Sent from Samsung tablet

A PERFECT LATHER

she messages me
she would love
a full body
massage

before her
bath

I try to censor
where my mind
is heading

thoughts I
should not be
having

light years of disparity
between us and

yet I would be
so gentle working those
muscles smoothing
out the knots
soothing the
stress
or, later,
watching the hot
steam rising from
her shoulders

by the light
of candles, time

suddenly frozen and
the only purpose in
life that
of working up
a perfect lather

OTHER

my body longed for
craved something other

to be something other
feel something other
learn something
taught by
something

that could not
be more other

TRANSFUSION

TRANSFUSION

I am in a
strangely canted
world

where dolphins, sharks even,
nuzzle me
whisper (between perfectly
evolved purpose-
fit teeth)
how deeply they wish
to know me

give me
whole blood
transfusions

take me
away from all this.

WITH ZIPPO FERVOR

making love to
you would be a disaster
not a Greek Tragedy
where a god descends
to save you
(the bed bursting
into flames)

but a sad mistake, somewhat
bitter-taste inconvenience,
a shade of to cigarette ashes
lust, grey (the ghostly
gorgeous forty shades)
where once burned
with the fervor
of a Zippo flame

I WOULD LAUGH

I would laugh
at you
if you were to
think of a poem
as the poet
distilled

it is a species of
artifice, a fiction
a lie,

except where
it speaks (if it does,
as it should)
about the pain of desire.

THE KEY

the key
should fit perfectly

should
open every door

but
let me never use it

trust me
to
keep a
loving distance
like the Sun

to give you
all the light
you need

withholding fatal
warmth

(nothing could
be more plain to me
this very
key
now burning
through my hand)