A Forgotten Piece

Gone. Found. Copied:

I haven't washed now in over a couple of days;

not since just after seeing you, anyway

my body is coveted with its own thick musk-

the scent of my pheromones sticks to my skin

like sweet sucrose in sap

as it pushes through pores in my sweat

as I lay there and sleep.

It's a powerful smell

but it's subtle,

and it makes me think of your lust

and it makes me think of your love,

and it makes me think of you. 

Untitled

Pardon my lack of attention to certain 'characters' of the alphabet and their upper-case forms; my laptop is broken- it is an effort to produce most sentences unimpeded by the prospect of much 'cut and paste' and time-consuming revision. The letter 's', is one such, and humorously, one of the most common place charms in the succeeding piece. The 's' resembles the snake; a binding, cold, body of muscle that suffocates and devours its prey (In some cases). The snake must 'stalk', and therefore become the part of the (hopefully) successive lover. There is no title; too many things can be easily said about hungering/hunting for love or love's longing... There is more to all this than just the metaphor.

Like a stranger: some freak
upon the periphery,
I steal from you.
Nothing much-
not so much as
you'd ever notice,
but I swindle a look
that makes me fall in love
with your elegant form;
your mix of playfulness
and sophistication.
I am seduced, entirely,
all over again
as I scamper behind
to pick up the debris
that still bodes warm
and trace your steps as if
to suppose I might actually
begin to possess
a keener insight to your life.
I have been struck
so severely by Cupid's arrow
that should I strive
to remove this thing,
it would surely kill me.
How much longer must I live
then, without confession?
How many years must it become
that I skulk, bent-backed
with face to floor and lowered eye,
not half as strong a when I once was
now the year that's passed seems
already too much. Now I try to be bold and...
second guess. I question that which
never before would have
posed a thought.
And seeing beauty, in its glade
as I take perch within the shade
and watch with willful eye;
such very luminosity is burn'd
upon my retina, casting glare
from out the very outline
of your frame, within which;
nothing else will fit.
I think to be your stool.
Make me the very thing to take
your pressure off, after
so many days of taking leave
and making your escape:
Breaking away.
Let me make your house!
Let me serve you breakfast
from silver trays, I'll save
for them- if I must-
Let me rub your sores-
I apologise: sometimes I'm
heavy handed;
maybe sometimes I'd rub you raw-
I am new to this:
In fact, I've never
loved someone so much before.
I appraise the letter
that sets your name;
I take it away and hold it
every time I think
to set it down again.
Delirious,
I am lost to the empty chambers
of my heart
that I keep vacant,
waiting for you.
Unusual that you should cast
two shadows;
that my negative space
depends on you-
so substantial you are-
yet I wonder:
Do you ever feel the weight
of my mostly silent, suffocating affections?
Do you feel another,
looming close,
or my anxious eye upon you?
Do you wonder that I
should even breathe?
so reliant I am upon you.
so very long I followed you
that I now know nothing more-
perhaps never knew much else
since before my sleepless skein
had started
but how to fill my day with you;
how to coil around
and slowly wrap
applying all the pressure,
for a serpent's warmth
is his betrayal.
I've heard others say
they've only loved once
and I wonder:
Do they recall your name?

Of Weeks Past

With nothing else, I delight myself
with thoughts of you.
I dream of holding you;
your legs wrapped tight
around me, I feel you
in my arms as I inhale
your scent and taste your bitter,
lovely, residue
as it's lost in my mouth
to your extensive, virile, kisses.
I think of writing you.
Ensnaring you with my raw words
like stems and shoots and leaves
that, hidden in nature,
tie you all the more mischievously-
with a necessary guile
to fill myself on you.
Like the nomad I am,
I must capture you;
must take my draught
before this sickness kills me.
I am faint through missing you.
The impostor of my thoughts
is not enough to keep me sated.
Though I wait and carry on
unhindered, still
I sear under a golden God
to find the flesh that fits your form.


                           
                                                                        ***

Hail!
Wild rush of
glorious wind!
Hail!
Tidal force bequeathed
by ocean's rare...


                                                                        ***



What may, at first, sound like obnoxious perfidy;
pretensions and otherwise, are really not:
I resolve as I revolve;
spinning a silk strand, web-maze shell
around me, as I delineate from thought
to deal with introspection, extraversion,
hypothetical scenarios, meditation, alteration...
I analyse, logicise, radicalise, rationalise, mystify,
and then act, reflect, reaffirm, relate, respond, readjust.
All things bear subjective relativism.
'All things being equal', and 'all things to all men',
all things are fine and all well and true-
as and was when they happen. 'Here today
gone tomorrow'; another layer twisted through
as I spin, spin, spin, metamorphose and grow-
taking flight from the vulgar youth and infancy
of ideas as I bloom into an adult butterfly-
beautiful, with learned wing.

Notes on the Author

I sit up in my unmade, dirty, bed and smoke cigarettes. They make me feel sick; swirling inside my gut, mingled with all the water and milk from the few past cups of tea, is all that smoke, rolling in the emptiness surrounding.
   My head spins nauseatingly slowly- heavy with the lumber of disarray as I swallow a load of spit that feels like its displacement could cause me to vomit at any time. I hang limp, and extinct of ideas like a ventriloquist doll; my joints equally stiff, my body beaten and muscles knotted- all tense and skinny, I feel dumb and low. Lost... Lost... And falling apart. Every breaking day should bring new promise. Uneasily, I creep from out of my bed. For many days and nights, now, I have not been stable- have not had rest. My wounds have not been treated; my sores never soothed- I have dragged on and on and on, perpetually tired and revolving I stumble without consideration; a worn-out motion with a lack of possession. I fall from duty to duty to duty, from drunk to drugged to a sleepless stupor full of failing courtesy and lack of common sense. It is important not to give up. Important not to slip and become overwrought by the mire that is left in your wake. Important to look only forwards, or else it all becomes worthless; a trick connived by Hades, no less. What is there before you, branching out from all the mess? Behind lay thick, rooted weeds that make you trip, thorns and vines that rip and whip and the stains of your seared flesh as you pass through hell. The cerebral plane tips, and all that was once grounded becomes sky. The self implodes so that the bones of the body can be worn on the outside; a carapace to deflect the startling affects both filial and communal, pulled away from the centre of love as though drawn by the four horsemen that end all. Plagued, Pestilent and left Dead after War. Just another vacuous member of a miserable horde. The mirror's image has long been forgotten; the fading painting was just a representation of an artist's dream. There is nothing you can grasp that has not been defiled by time. Only a semblance of what was had remains. It is picked and held softly, gently, and warmly, close- and finally it crumples into fine dust, as ashes.