I left Ireland a few years back,
disillusioned by her new found greed.
Like a lost lover, I searched for another bed,
although none are as alluring as hers.

My dear, sweet Ireland, you were a tragedy
waiting to happen...to someone else.

A year has gone by so fast and yet
I've been breathing at a snail's pace
In August you said I touched your soul
Now, you don't even talk back.
So my words are for myself, as
they reflect I hear them loud,
but when you finally read them
they'll sound hollow-glad I can't
see the look in your eyes.

I cannot know your mind in these matters,
only the cold egde to your words that
I do not believe is your voice, but
that of a strangled heart hurled
from a happy place to the very depths
of this kind of hell.
I thought it my place to rescue you,
but we found ourselves entwined in
a brambled love and embittered by
our want we fell further adrift until
we reached a crevice from which
to hang or hang ourselves.

Exhaustion-
                  Last night you walked my dreams.
I tried to take your hand, but you pulled away
without a word.
                   In the early morning light I awake.
Thoughts of you flood out the light and shadows
 play at the edges of my heart and mind.

I am tired.

I walk through the valley of the shadow of life,
my thoughts and my sins are my own,
Had I come by another time she might have thought
I wasn't interested in her or the socks she had on.

We lay on her bed almost an hour later,
Naked but fully clothed,
I felt like a baby swathed in cloths,
reborn by the nature of our love.

Inspired by Lip Service...

Trying to forget is hardest of all
things to do as we move in worlds
consistently reminding us of our
wrongdoings and the mistrust
we all feel in each other because
at the core we are all drawn to
the carnal sins we will commit
by the promise of sex and a sense
of exhilarating freedom from
ourselves.

This has played on my mind for a couple of days. It moves me now to read it on the page and place it here amongst all my emotions. It comes in light of the knowledge that to open up to someone is a great risk, but to not take that risk would deny the experience of feeling.


I wear her image on my mind,
she asked me to remove it,
said she did not want to be
my shield
so, I've placed her in my heart
for later.

There's a stillness__
           
               her face appears
as if from a great distance,
but her lips upon mine
we are as close as two people can be.

               
There's a stillness__

               I am alone now
a great longing remains,
but I know she will come
to be as close as two people can be.

I feel liquid, unsteady on high waters.
A bout of vertigo, today of all days?

A memory of my grandmother washing dishes-
her hands moving over and under the current
of the running water, as I struggle to hold my
balance on the footstool next to her-
pours over me, this downcast London day.

In the shadows, a hidden place.
Is there a hand that steadies me?

Future memories trail behind the hound
that barks infamous words from my
flagrant past lives and shouts-
oh ye of little faith,why not dance
upon my washed up, sodden grave.

Had I poured any more than a river of words

from a damaged soul and frayed mind,

than my still beating heart would have filled

this space with the red hue of a broken being.

As it stands, a river now flows and creates

the hills and valleys as it moves towards the

ears that sit at the mouth of its destination-

should the waves crash with rejection,

I will know my place.

There is evidence I am lost in my own head
counting crows and possibly stars in order
to pass a time of no particular importance to
anyone except possibly the flowers in the vase
with a name etched upon their fragrance.

Sitting in my tower, I have

fallen into the arms of Morpheus,

his mother having named him

needed none to conceive of him.

I am, far from the miracles of

immaculate conception, dwelling on a face

I have not encountered and a mind that

is not mine to shape nor fashion, towards

a mould of my own understanding.

Had Zeus the courage to carry out

his fury upon the son of

Night, I would not be a continuous

figure upon the scaffolding of this existence.

My own courage lacks conviction,

for I feel his sweet arms around me

and relax into them. Had I looked

outwards, I would have seen her,

gently waiting to catch me when I arrived.

She ran her fingers over the small wooden frame.She would have loved to have recaptured a memory of hours searching for just the right one, but in truth she had simply put the photo in the one most readily available. Not even new, but one discarded under her bed having worn out its use as a coffee cup mat. There was still a stain on the back to prove its previous occupation.


The photo itself was completely intact, unscathed by time, except for the dust that clung to it, protecting its inhabitant. A photo of her lover, eyes closed, bathed in the softness of an unwavering sun. She could recall the hour, the very moment she had taken it, on a warm, sunny morning in June, years before.

She was carrying coffee, two cups. She had spent the past ten minutes deciding whether to wake her lover. Then spent another five trying to make the coffee just right. What had she feared? That an unseemly cup of coffee would put an end to their passion. Was their love really so fragile? When she entered the room, she was stopped in her tracks by an overwhelming sense of longing and her feeling of fragility took on new meaning. It had rendered her incapable of moving for almost a whole minute and in that minute she decided she wanted to capture it forever. A reminder of her love, least it ever waver.

The autumn sun washed over her now. Its warmth long gone, carried away on the ends of a summer breeze. She looked at the image of dark skin and the curved body that shaped so much of her life, then walked away.


She passed through the kitchen, where the night before they had cooked together and entertained close friends. The line of empty wine bottles seemed to profess its success, for she suspected without the cloudy judgement the night may not have passed so smoothly.


She moved through the hallway, more images of their years together were visible in the corner of her eye, and her step quickened. Reaching the bedroom, she released a breath she hadn't realised she was holding. It was their cocoon, where they found each other and lay insulated from the outside world. It was distinctly theirs in colour, smell and taste. Her eyes wondered over the furniture they had bought together. The bed, the centre focus of the room, filled her now with a medley of images and emotions.


The day it was delivered, giggling and acting like children, impatient for the delivery men to leave so that they could christen it with hours long love making. Saturday mornings that carried into Sundays without either noticing, until the phone rang and friends and family demanded their attention. There were times she was amazed they were still alive, when neither food nor water had passed their lips and their bodies were drained by their incessant need to touch, to feel, to have the other. It was at those times she secretly thanked those family and friends for saving their lives, many times over.


With this came another memory and her brow furrowed and an ache returned to her heart at the thought. It was a death, of sorts, the day when the essence of what they shared died, when they looked in each other's eyes and what stared back was something unknown.

It had been raining all afternoon and she arrived home drenched, unable to tell if the streams running down her face were coming from her soaked auburn hair, her stinging eyes or her anxiety manifesting itself physically. All the way home she had imagined so many scenarios: her clothes torn to shreds or left out in the rain, maybe both, or a crazy person wielding a knife ready to put an end to her. So many possibilities played out in so many TV dramas, but she had not expected this. The apartment was silent. 

She walked into the bedroom and saw her sitting on the bed. She was just sitting there, staring at something on the floor. When she looked up, her eyes portrayed nothing. They were dark, as always and yet different.

"You're wet"

"It's raining"

"You should get a towel and dry off"

"I'm fine"

"Why?"

The sudden question thew her and she didn't know if they were still discussing the water trickling down her shirt or...

"Why?"

The other woman spoke louder now and this time her eyes, pleading and pathetic, said it all.

"I...I don't know...I..."

There was nothing she could say. She moved towards the bed and stood before her. The notion of a sinner begging forgiveness entered her mind, no doubt leftover from a catholic childhood, but she didn't want forgiveness.

The  sudden movement shocked her as she fell backwards against the wall. She felt the pounding against her chest and thought it her heart until she registered the screaming sobs and her lover's face before her now, a distorted image of the beautiful woman she was. More sounds came out, as she continued to pound her fists and then they were in an embrace. Their tears mingled, and their lips, as if commanding it, found each other and the want, the need, filled them. With it came a fierceness, and with great force she turned their bodies and held her lover against the wall. Putting her full weight upon her, she ripped open her shirt and took her nipple into her mouth, taking pleasure in the cry that it raised. Anger emanated from the other woman and in a moment of compliant madness she found herself entering her with an intensity and forcefulness she had not realised she possessed. They clawed each other's skin, as if willing to dig their way back in to each other's hearts, until her lover shuddered and cried and their energy spent, they fell to the floor. Once more, and for a long time after, the apartment was silent.

Over a year had passed. She had been forgiven. Life had continued. There was grocery shopping, working out job schedules, spending quality time together and dinner with friends. There was even sex. Meaningless sex. First, with a waitress in a bathroom stall, then with a girl she met in a coffee shop and many others. As for her relationship. They never made love. They rarely made full eye contact. She realised, at those times when they did, that what stared back at her was someone she did not recognise, until she realised that that someone was her own reflection in her former lover's eyes. They were broken. At least one of them had to acknowledge it.


She looked around the bedroom again. This time she could not envisage it as the cocoon that kept them safe, but rather one from which she needed to break free. She placed a firm hold around the handle of the case that sat inside the door and lifting it walked out of the room.


Back in the living room she reached out and held the small, wooden frame. She had taken the photo in a moment of overwhelming emotion, yet she could see none of it now. It was just another image of a time no longer with them. It was no longer hers to have, nor did she want it. She placed it back on the shelf and walked out the door without a glance backwards.

She walks among my thoughts

throughout the day so that

my conscious working hours are filled

with embarrassing mishaps.

She sleeps upon my written words

so delicate and frail that I dare not press

the keys too hard for fear of losing her among

the passages of my meandering mind.

She hides beyond my spoken words

seeking little attention

except for on those occasions

when she desires me most.

the birds are singing and the cat sits by her side having one of her several daily baths while all she feels are the thoughts she's having building up to such a crescendo that she knows in just a while the world itself will fall silent flowing over the slight breeze that now pours through the open veranda door seeking solace from the evening sun which still burns in the clear blue sky.

She takes a deep breath...

you are in her mind's eye playing a tune that she wants to recognise but as the notes linger in the air she concedes she does not know its name but longs to place her lips upon those notes that have caused your eyes to bleed emotions that at once blend to form a canvas on which she sketches you and her melded together in a lover's embrace.

You sat across from me on the tube

you were wearing scuffed black Converse,
brown cargos and a navy Pea coat.


The weather was warm.


you were listening to music on over-
sized headphones, while your eyes danced.


I hummed along to your tune.

Both women lay bathed in the most beautiful light.

You are draped across the bed,

jeans and a check shirt.

I lay opposite,

my shoulders appear relaxed.

You laugh, strangled desire

paints the room white.

I, a voyeur of the hidden moments of my own mind,

watch an intimate conversation unfold.

For dear friends. What can I say-they like to shower :P

Travelling everywhere I please,

over hills and valleys and

through every crevice

I caress the very nature

of her being.

I am what no man can be,

exactly what is needed

at the right time, all the time

I may even bring her

to her knees.

 

For my Mum, who always makes me feel better, whether it's a chat on the phone or those wonderful times when we can be together and have a proper old natter and a cup of tea in the kitchen by the range (for those who don't know-a large stove).

We drink tea and sit by the range,

chatting for hours about local news,

how we've been passing the time

since we last saw each other

and who has died

this week in Eastenders.

It is as always and will

ever be-having a cup of tea,

by the warmth of the fire

with my friend, my mother.

To Covet

Desire renders one speechless. There is nothing that can be achieved except the prolonging of that deep, consuming ache of an already taut mind.

 It meanders slightly, allowing a glimpse of relief in the memory...

of a hand upon the small of the back, playing incidentally, until a shudder leaves these lips and the body lets it be known its wishes are unseemly.

A finger catches the loop of my jeans and pulls me further in, the heat that is us-my breath hitches-illuminates the hue of our skin as we remove each others clothing moving to the bed.

Skin moves over skin, hands reach out and tongues dance to the sounds of foreign beats. Pleasure and pain are blurred in the lines of our bodies and dominant eyes flash moments of tenderness, as a hand brushes lightly across my breast.

Lips tell a story while only whispering a breath, lingering upon an exposed neck and naked ear, exposing us to our weaknesses before throwing us both from a dizzying height into the writhing folds of each other's weeping flesh.

There is no longer any distinction between what's you and mine. The cacophony of our thoughts brought to life, discord creating some semblance of an honest form of art.

Desire renders one speechless. There is nothing that can be achieved except the prolonging of that deep, consuming ache of an already taut mind.

There is no face I see nor

voice I hear,

I hold on to the branch

that sways,

It carries me with it this

way and that,

I can not find my feet nor

feel my heart,

It has fallen out and lays damaged

on the sodden path,

Where the day before I walked

casually along.

I saw her face for the first time
on a day when the wind itself decided
to play among the streets of London
I was looking from the inside out
hills and valleys shaped my skin
and all I could do was stare and look
away from there I fled to another
scene of sunkissed reasons to move
to California.
Later when all went quiet I found
myself in a mirror staring at her
once more with different eyes
seeing what she could not
possibly know about herself as
I challenged my thoughts I took
a walk in the park down my street
where local dogs walk their owners
insisting they exercise.
After some time I returned to the
sanctury of my soul so revived
I sat down once more recalling her
on a piece of paper I spoke out loud
"You are beautiful"

It catches me by surprise,

a blow to the chin

but the river softens my fall.

I feel it now, the damp,

seeping through my clothes

willing me to stand,

the water running by me,

without a care for the load

it now carries.

Her face fills the space ahead

contorted, distorted, unknown

she offers her hand and

eases me from my pit of despair.

She does not speak a word,

nor do I, but I wrap my fingers

around hers and breath deeply.

It is the last time I feel her touch

upon mine. Her eyes tell a story of

dysphoria and as I breath once more,

I know.

It is the end.