Momento from the full moon

Once
I loved someone,
in the same way,
& for the same reason
I love the moon:

you don’t need to see it every day,
                to know that you’ll see it again;  
you can’t always see it, but
                you know it’ll always be there…

                    …& then
months became years & those years
became the unnoticed mouldering kiss;
a distance turning stale,
old & cold as the
                empty bed.
                               
So lonely not knowing how to explain
until too late,
& strange to find how changed
the feeling is when found again;

the pain so far away

like the Moon.

Evergreen

With all the inevitability
& perfect frailty
of autumn’s
final fallen leaf

the secret violence of our silence,
stands exposed;

a distance so vast in a space so small.

Every word that once was shared
now hides
with their patterns obscured.

The summer is turning it’s back,
as the wind grows sharp teeth
greedily devouring the trees;
darker mornings, colder evenings.

Will the winter destroy the warmth we need,
or will we find a way to keep our dreams
from fading?

There is still hope,
not every leaf will fall:

some trees are evergreen…

Constant inconstancy

It isn’t the same, it
                        can never stay the same.

No grass seeds always ready to
raise their blades again, only
                        
                        change.

Slow or sudden,
willed or unbidden,
                        there is only change

& nothing else.

Habit & time,
                        being & repetition
build an image of difference
                        & permanence,

but there is only change;

the one constant
                        dressed as paradox:

there is only change,
                        change

& nothing else.

Desire

Mais c’est la machine en elle qui rêvait de caresses… -Sartre

Wrong words sometimes misheard
                            as the correct ones,

(Correction:
            there are no correct words,
            only those more or less sufficient.)

dream disguised as prophecies while
                            all prophets are despised
& each day either a sombre parade
gliding quietly by,
or screaming as it runs into the night.

Were these fiercely defended fantasies
created only to be destroyed?

Is that why
we still desire them?

How strange it is that the urge to leap when crossing
a bridge so rarely corresponds
                            to the balance
between despondency
                            & excitement;
solidarity & isolation;

love,
indifference,
ideation.

                            How obvious
it seems in hindsight
that colour depends upon more than light:

if we close or open our eyes;
the strength of our sight; what
            we choose to see,
            or if

we look away.

Escape

For S

The city lights always invade the night:

I just want to fuck you in pure moonlight
or beneath a furious storm,
but the city forever prevents me.

I dream of our escape, but first
we must learn how to be caged
                                together.

All For Two, & One For All

Only those who know how to truly love
                                    know how to hate:

we wait for them to despise us,
a prophecy possibly more fulfilling
than anything they’ve offered us before…

Life has become an idea; vapour
rising from the surface of a shrinking
lake, never to return again.

Our first fuck was a clumsy mess,
but am I wrong to see the dignity
we’ve since spent building beginning to crumble?

Who’s the most humble, the pessimist
or the optimist, & is it naive
to believe that the only worthwhile thing

is to keep giving a shit
                                despite the odds?

‘cos I’m all in now; no backing out:

you’ve got everything I can give.

So it’s time to ride or die, to fight or hide;

to fucking decide & then fall,
                                if we have to,
on the hill where

we’ve chosen to demand the impossible

& laugh at the improbable.

                               

Eros & Philia

The city lights conspiring to hide
the cold shimmer of starlight from our eyes;
walks together: a flower & it’s thorns,
sharing our thoughts,
secrets, fears & feelings,

each the other’s mirror
using silk to remove any marks that
prevented us from seeing clearly &
the resulting electrostatic charge
binding us together.

All of this
& more
is a gift,

& every poem I give you
is an attempt to make amends
for being no more than
                   an unremarkable,
undeserving
                   mammal.

I remember…

For S

I can still taste the memory of those cold
December mornings,
when all I ever wanted
was to stay with the warmth of your body.

Or the Summer evenings when
you would rise, like a feline, from the bed
to describe the most perfect lines,
just by stretching your limbs,

& how the sunlight would slip
from a halo to fingertips
brushing against your skin.

Lovers & Liars

"All lovers become liars in the end."
                                    I said,
as we lay there, naked in the bed.

They refused to believe me,

& in that sweet moment of post-fuck repose,
I looked into their eyes
& realised they were right:

only some lovers become liars.

I just can't decide
if the lie will be theirs or mine.

She speaks French to me #1

For S

Tu est le connard
tu sais le bon, mais
toujours choisis l’exception.

Constant
répétition du mal:

pourquoi les fausses decisions et
pourquoi de la destruction de toi?

Regarde la merde se déverser sur le sol
est-ce que tu voulais, est-ce que tu a besoin?

Il y a ton futur qui se mourant:
tu es apprécier de lui faire?