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And Now I Can Write About Sunsets.

It’s only when
I
lie so still
and pretend to be dead.

It’s only when
I
lie so still
that I feel like I’m doing
anything.

I am a deluded perception
of a sincere wish
and it’s only when
you’re in the arms of another man
I figure out I’m in love with you.
Then your second hand kisses become
so very cherishable
against a backdrop
the shade of Amber precision

at least Sunsets never get it wrong...

You can’t touch me
or understand
but you laugh at my jokes
as everyone does
but
I can’t
give the world my heart
because
it never asked
never cared
and wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway.

There’s a shallow breed of love.
There’s a cloudless shade of light blue/grey
until it all ends
in a sliver of passion
and shades of red miracles.

Its not your fault
that you could never really love me
but I think-despite my lip service-
I would’ve appreciated a gesture
Even if it was small.

Know that
I am afraid
of
love
and
orange
and
miracles.
Know that
I wish I could be everything
to everyone
and know that I know that I’m not.
But just to set the record straight
I was willing to give it a go
well...consider it
at least
lying there
unmoving
eyes closed
as the Sunsets without me.

The Sunsets without me
even more beautiful
without me.

Meaning it…

Because I dreamt of giving you an anthology of epic love poetry, but I can’t put into words the feeling of your sleeping breath against my cheek and the taste of your mouth/red wine moist flavour and the wetness of tangible pleasure. Raw viscous love and the brutal/stark lust of it all.

And watching bad television that is somehow elevated/lifted/throbbing with life, cuddled and pressing against you on an old couch with a moth eaten blanket and no other cares in the world.

Because I always thought love could be good, like a fairytale...but I never thought I’d open my eyes in the middle of the night and pray to a God I hardly believed in with gratitude. Gratitude and thanks because not in my wildest fairy tale highs and dreams of what if...not in my most heroic feats, my mystic conquests of idealistic passion...not once did I think it could ever be this good...because love in time ticking away seconds...in it’s simple fraught and day to day lived experience of trial and error...love in real time cannot be surpassed by any thought or mind or any spiritual awakening...it hovers gently with God...the ultimate...paramount...defining...vast in it’s eternal and unsurpassed humility....

All of this in a split second meeting of your lips...

All of time and the force of God in a nervously whispered three words...

Knowing that it will and won’t last forever....

Knowing beyond a doubt that no matter how many tears of blood and hearts torn and moulded into scar tissue...no matter the death...no matter the pain...and the pain...and the pain...beyond a doubt it was worth it/worthwhile...the only worthy thing....

Because it proved that life is worth living and dreams erupt into living mysteries of awe...and that the suspicion you had deep in your deepest place was right....and joy/tears/laughter and existence...and a word...

“I love you”....and meaning it.....

Sun.

Heatwaves and dazed minds,
Singing and dripping with all the warmth
of freedom.
A scream, naked and mortal.
A laugh amongst hot tears.
Humming while the sunsets,
Exhumed by all the glories,
Fury and emotion,
All those sweat soaked trivialities
of hard fought existence...

Let the moonlight have nothing to observe,
Save a pile of ashes,
Where once you stood and burned.

Before the Curtain Rises…

Cos you realise
that there is a lone voice
that consistently
turns it all
upside down...
Like betrayal
when perceptions are questioned
and truth questioned as a perception.

Every face you touch
your hand slides over the surface
as if there is a thin layer of plastic
between you and the reality of a sensation.

You ask
whether it really is possible
to find the fire
you live with in your dreams.

Crossing the fine line
from black
to curious
revealing a wish
made to God
when as a child
your eyes flicked open at a midnight hour...

I don’t want to write about
that child
or include tears
or think about love.
I’d rather be wide eyed
and grey
waltzing through existence
with a pleasant demeanour
taking miracles in my stride with a half-mocking laugh.
Preaching not desiring self-help
and become obsessed and driven by progress
with a suitcase full of
courage/morality and ideals...

I don’t want to wake up
fearing a set of colours
and time
and settle for chasing a reality
that promises epic proportions.

I want to be
a hero and carry the world on my shoulders
and kill anyone who disagrees.
Kill anyone who says anything against the myth
I create by living
through all the pitter-patter
the skin deep day to day
the shades of blue
and just a hint of a smile
(just a hint mind you
because it’s foolish not to be uncertain....
right?).

If only I take notice and really see
the activities in my peripheral vision.
If only I could hear the sounds
and not live in a process of deletion.
Always a countdown...
three.....
two....
one.....
and I get so sick of it all
so quickly
and the reason to continue to live for many
is the excuse
“Nobodies perfect”...
as I roll up to another premier
about an advert of comfort
and living a so-so life.

Its the rhyme
the proofread couplet
a replica Chapel,
and too much artifice
and popcorn for anyone to consume.

High art is dead
because there is a dozen
“great” authors all penning
novels that thrill the monkeys
and none of their breed of artist
really believes
in true love.