like pressed garlic
creamy crushed
husk blown away,
i held her
forgetting the argument,
forgiveness and
playing with that
blonde hair
thinking of tomorrow
A poem that got put published in Rusty Truck 25 March 2012 in memory of Richard Brautigans birthday 30th January 1935
conduit shrugs
from sleepy wither
morning scrapes
itself off the night
with bruised studded clouds
I will shower
soaps lather run
looming down
at the hoodless one
shaped contour of
male tissue erectile
veined with coming age
desensitized to cotton touch
hidden behind
clasp of gideon sundbuck
soft towel rub
once retreated
so nobody will know
it’s a shame
that this dome
quite architectural
with narrow eye
can shine and shimmer
in fluid moments
of interaction
but for now
the day pale clad
has begun
me as of today
I broke an egg
soft boiled
watched the yolk
spread
in the whorehouse
of my soul
i thought
of my yolk
spread
over your breast
as I kneel
and urge
over
your sleeping
shape
my mess
your anger
limp disaster hung
itself
on my brittle facade
you left
exit by the door
i now look at
knowing
this egg will
not taste any better
the moving clouds
buddha puffs
of a slow conscious
scratched awake
by some yearning
for nothing absolute
but unreal
sucked out of a heart
of someone
once and never loved
sun stains
burns and blinds
i yield
and feel no more
Events have occurred , political intrusion by government Trump or May that have dissolved our lives into a caricature farce that is dark and sadistic so I wrote this…
curious
in a time I never realised before
those blindly blinking
people
heads down
could be swallowed up
by forces unseen
and never know
monuments fall
governments tirade
without distraction
I was a beggar in life
seizing the moments
that never seemed to come often
thoughts and a voice
but nobody would listen
media’s bluster
without so much as
whisper
of human account
cut me into wounds
moral abstract slices
of nevermore and decay
will we be saved
on this exhausted hulk
called earth
or will I shrivel
into that carbonised carapace
and tomb
that is called death
oscillation of my heart
a thrum of false applause
nova wheel turns
in loose hands palms sweaty
streetlights searing flares
in greasy windshield stain
accelerating with measure
not panic
plastic neon afterglow
rearview shadows and transcience
nicotine once craved
alcohol once craved
cardboard cup balanced
lid slipped with brown liquid
it’s smell filling nostrils
along with dog
and after days perfume
arguments
those voices thrown and snatched
can be taken back
into a street
cop car drawled on by
tree lined urban paradise
front porch orange glow
parked
engine silently waiting
would she disturb the curtains to see
nothing
was he wrong
then he remembered
she was gone
they where gone
counselling for grief
counselling for depression
arguments outlive those who shout
that once beautiful house
invaded
shotgun splattered
with crimson design
rocking slowly to and fro
applause had silenced
into the false abyss
he would be in the shadows
a footnote on a headstone
living without a porch
accelerating
foot on gas
rubber black stained
breathing in circles
window open
a destination yet unwritten
cracked on cheap wine
liver brushed
tongue licked by camels
lying in semi stasis
not being illiterate
book slithered to floor
words melting into wood
she was by the full length mirror
naked with no breath left
she was my descent
her depths a surge of rapid currents
I could not read anýmore
tenderloin buttocks moved
her vagina a well visited republic
it’s musty sweetness
gave me a fugue of absurdity
return to me
return to me
her snowy gut roll belly
over my lips
kissing tongued glassy traces
jackrabbit twitching
lowered herself to me
I was forgiven
I had absolution
sweet poetry and flesh
shuddering silver dollars
into the meter
my time running out
would return to book
and motel walls
she a neon scrawl on my eyes
then there would be tomorrow
Coughing out the lightness in
smoke and spiral motes of dust
mutable bed and our body acquisitions
cuttlefish ass damp from before
if I was not so ignorant
i would feel again
the tapestry of tattoos on her flank
precise inks more trustworthy
than my cock of threat
in denial and veiled seduction
pressed against her
the hum of bee air conditioning
positioning for me with rump pressure
she felt I could make her sparkle and shine
instead that tremored gasp
returning to her back
looking with a certain knowing
that I was a flake
who would leave and betray
adding to that pile of detritus
and awful decay that was her life
they told me about the garden of love
which I knew never existed
just like the dew settles
a feeling came over me
reaching touching feathery leaves
someone lurked in the darkness
a glimpse a furtive shadow
i needed to draw out of the gloom
no fee to be paid
as wallet forgotten
my fingers picked a rose
holding it aloft to the sun
shadow emerged reaching also
for the rose
sunlit face exquisite beauty
naked radiance for me to see
entranced entwined enthralled
in a boiling swell of passion
i was consumed
infused with the flowers and trees
the garden in this garden
i would remain
many stories can be untold
but this one cannot
i belong to that once furtive figure
no more in the density of foliage
but with me
together as one
Together always
22 years of marriage to be celebrated
Follow the link to see my wife’s Photography website award winning art you can own and desire “The first half of the 20th century belongs to Picasso, and the second half is about photography. They said digital…
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