all of a sudden passion suddenly

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follow me
just take a step
in time with me
not that kinda time silly
I want to go into bars
and measures of synchopa-
tion with you marking
moments and down beat
riffs begin when you crawl
up my spine and shake
the cerebral cortex you find
at the end of the melody
now sing fluid notes right off
the end of your tongue
serenade me without knowing
the tune
it don't matter how close
you follow
just step here and then
shake your morality loose.
 
Tears

The sting and well behind my eyes
sprang leaks at the corners. They streamed
their course down cheeks and chin.
Tears, every time I looked at you,
they started all over again
because what you felt, I felt.
We cried for two hours straight,
we cried and cried.

But it's all right, we'll make it through this
like everything else we do.
 
You breathe
in vowels,
smile
as if tearing flesh,
bare your neck
for wolves
and wait
for the butterfly cut,
wait for teeth
and needles.
 
if she is the light then he was darkness
the kind of density that makes you hold your breath
at the bottom of the water darkness only that allows the stars to be seen
or the moon that shades our eyes from the suns intensity
just enough to see its magic
corona pulse through the edges
you the covers under which we hide
hid deep enough to let the truth emerge seep through
you the black stillness
guide my body to relearn every movement
as you guide the iris
open slowly
convex droplets pinpoint burning flesh into new holes
for you to fuck into me seeing nothing
feeling nothing but that point
my love my filter my polarizing lens subtracting everything
that is not you
that is not good and true and line me up for the perfect
slip through pupil dialated we are blind
we see
everything
 
The fragile thread of muse
is stuck to the roof of my mouth
which I've opened not to scream
but whisper. The quiet dawn
drowns in the drival of talking
heads, No one is listening:
my poem is superannuated.
Your breathing has faded to unconscious
while the boys in the box touch down
to tackle my poem, stomp it senseless.
It limps off the field, shrivels back
to the vacumn of my imagination.
 
Thoughts on a Wisdom Emblem

Man stands on the earth, his podium
to the heavens. He is their ruler,
the inscription says, sapiens dominabitur
astris
. His napkin has already been
laid out, but he isn't hungry.
 
4degrees asked that I post this for him. I'm not a poet, so I'm not sure I copied it in correct form. I'm posting it as I received it via text message

"Post this to the passion thread, if you get a chance, please brother.
four score, nearly
four short seasons with unreasoned scenes of inner

Schemes addressing mangled innards, bits of a man sticking out like shiney schrapnel, get your scalpel, doctor, i think we need to operate.

Amputated fate bleeds over into a warm glistening pool of segregated love, separated segments of some strung out on sober sappy old fuck.
 
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Sex was all the same
a slow burn negotiated
with nods and winks
postured wildness
but at its heart
really very polite

show me yours
and I'll show you mine
we hadn't really come
very far from the blanket
used as a tent
in the back garden

until Sue turned up
'if you want me
you'd do something about it'
I considered heaven
then a police cell
then chose a night in hell

we bit and gouged
and pulled each other's hair
she called me a sex fiend
I called her a whore
as we punched and kicked
around the floor

in the morning
we picked up the bits
exchanged grimaces
and compared notes
on orgasms for
and orgasms against

Sex was all the same
until Sue came along
now on Saturday nights
after the pubs are closed
we sell our souls to the Devil
for one more night in hell
 
Gym

He is a lizard today, front legs
spread open, back legs neatly
tucked behind the weights.
His tail will be doing the work,
lifting the aspirin shaped

weights up and down until his
tongue has unrolled and his form
has reverted to a shrivelled pink
ape. The instructor speaks in
cliches, quoting the analogy

of climbing the mountain. But he's
heard it all before and slowly
makes his way to the summit.
his breath plodding as it tries
to catch up with every word.

And then, in an instant, he changes
back, shedding his skin with a flick
of his wrist. But his tongue still
hasn't unrolled and he is still up
on the mountainside, breathless.
 
The old man sitting next to me
smells of rotting wood. Breathing
in his atoms takes me to his workshop,
to that boatyard where he has spent
the afternoon carving his unsinkable.

Its ribs are a perfect imitation of his:
frail, thin, about to break. Every plank
has been steam-bent, matching
the curvature of the earth. It has to be
perfect he tells everyone, or it won't
float. That is his dream, it makes him

skip on the surface of the ocean
his father built decades before, before
watching it shrink. His son inherited
a mere sea, but he calls it the ocean.
Everything is still big in his eyes.

And as leaves, I can smell the salt
from that place he dreams, my fingers
wet from his ocean that he left behind.
 
I would never dare
to compare a love so grand.
Never give up, never round the bend
of polishing amour, to touch
the shine that sustains the brush
of lifting fingers of touch
to stand the test. Test the stand
from upon the mountains of time ...

..
 
Ampersand

There is something seductive
about the way it sounds,
perhaps Tiro was influenced
by the phases of the Moon

when he brought the E and T
together. Or maybe he started
seeing things coming together:
a pearl and gold, two mussel
lips, a couple of lips.

Or maybe it was just a guess
that we all need to compress
everything everything into a
size we can manage.

And I mean, everything
 
I keep a decoy sitting by
red hearts embalmed all across the cup
of coffee. I sit, write and dream of the past,
while really drinking from the blue cup.
The one hidden, like I keep my heart
as I smile through the day, coffee in hand
drinking away my blues for one man.
The one who really holds my heart
in his left hand, where a ring still circles
from his ex, I suppose. Although
I'm not supposed to know that ...

..
 
You travel in circles, trapped
on a path of misperception
behaviors learned from past
experience, mistreatment
and bad fortune, buried deep

within the walls of your mind,
no matter what went before
now is the moment of liberation
smack your head on the bars
see stars, explore outer space

be circumspect, reflect on what you think
you are from a different angle,
untangle the maze within from without
shout down fear and uncertainty
you are free to be new
 
banned to a tangled net
cracked by corn years
in a garden condemned
by angled walls
I am a boulder unrolled
tungtied2u said:
You travel in circles, trapped
on a path of misperception
behaviors learned from past
experience, mistreatment
and bad fortune, buried deep

within the walls of our mind,
no matter what went before
now is the moment of liberation
smack your head on the bars
see stars, explore outer space

be circumspect, reflect on what you think
you are from a different angle,
untangle the maze within from without
shout down fear and uncertainty
you are free to be new

banned to a tangled net
cracked by corn years
in a garden condemned
by angled walls
we become another boulder unrolled
 
Last Letters Always Take The Longest To Burn

The question marks on your last letter
were bent, opened up hooks waiting
to snare me as I read your message.
Our love was over, you told me,
but I didn't need to hear that from you.

The clouds whispered it to me the week
before, when I left the house to take one
last journey with your shadow. I told
it all my secrets, filling its pockets
with trinkets that you never wanted.

But it melted away and all my words
ended up in the drains. I am not sure
what I will do with your letter, perhaps
I will burn it and inhale its stink. But there
is no pleasure in that.

I will crucify its words instead, spread
them across a driftwood cross and nail
them until they bleed, colouring the earth
a shade of black. And then I will weep
until you have my bones and I am gone.
 
The sinner spits at God

Father never believed in the principle
of confession, always preferring
to empty his sins in a bottle of whisky
and stuffing his thoughts in a wicker
moth, setting it alight with the last

drop of Vodka he had been saving.
He never spoke of these things
in our time together, I only found
out when I looked at his photographs
in the darkroom and saw them reflected

in his eyes. Maybe when he breathes
his last breath these things will become
free, losening themselves from those places
they have become lodged in.
 
Tube Lines

Mother preens herself with her moth
collar, as an elderly couple sitting
opposite try to predict their future
with a tube map.

They are not sure what stop to get
off, whether this journey will be their
last, or even what the point of this
particular journey is for. I have

the same feeling as I try to look
for the same answers in Mother's eyes,
but everything I see is clouded,
as if they are waiting, always waiting.
 
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