there are mountains, and there are precipice dreams across i fly
i fly, and feel me,
soaring
hold on tight my lover,
these wings are lined with glimmering prize,
something lifting, higher, we
i can’t imagine being totally happy without you in my life, and now i’m counting
the days to an infinite place where there are no endings,
just steps in a common direction towards
what is fate and right
touch, miss, long,
dream, stay, kiss,
hope, warm, want,
chance, wait, try,
heal, laugh, tick-all-the-boxes
, warm
, loved
, alive
, free
i caught a thousand of your smiles,
and they made me, then kept me
, all of the above
i met and fancied a girl whose eyes matched the flowers on her dress. they were beautiful. she made me cry and laugh, and i kissed her in our night that turned into a sun’s rising. on some perfect splendour that i’ve never planned, there were four moments that i’ll never forget.
a connected look of desire.
holding hands in the quiet stars.
a crack of thunder when our lips met.
running from the rain, to the jacaranda tree.
i have small regrets except this need to say, that
radio reverberates my solemnity, summer’s
swollen drag ages the air, and i drown
my throat in bitter ciders. cicada’s song plays
a long-ago lost time’s tune. these day’s
symphonys were sweeter then, when i
only had, (and only had to remember),
simple things.
i’ve infiltrated, quite by accident, the house of culpritous deeds.
my influence there is the (nudgenudgewinkwink) bad&good kind.
what’s there is amazing, and it’s quite amazing,
how it is that amazing happens.
i can’t explain it better, but if you were me
and me were you, we’d both know
because the better’ness just is.
by my own hands, i’m finding the missing
(one two three four five)
trusty gold nuggets.
to be continued.
this is my fun epiphany.
dances are free and stealing glances have smirks attached to the edges of innuendo. there is beer, lots of beer and champagne and cider and there’s the getting of tattoos and piercings, just for the heck of getting a piercing. everything’s spontaneous, everything’s got colour and spice and everything floats two inches off the ground, like we’ve got wings that work in auto pilot. you giggle and i giggle until cheeks hurt and stomachs hurt and the days turn into nights turn into days and there is flight of time and fancy, flirting with fuzzy and frolic.
hey, you wanna run down to the sand, down to the beach, down to where we can watch the sun coming up? it’s coming up real soon. race ya.
with a richness between those unspoken, i desire
words that sigh and drip from lips, that with one
kiss may burn on flesh’s timbre, a yes of purely
honest forever lasting prosperous distraction
today,
i heard the lazy hiss of homemade hamburgers on the barbeque. it was nice.
i also heard the hiss of cars on the wet road. i sat and listened through the open window. i liked it a lot.
it ground me to here,
to this softly smileworthy place,
a simple kinda place that feels like home, within a home,
within my aloneself, at peace.
desirefully diirrty
i swillingfully drink sweet
rose’s nectar
wantonfully woooing
i smackfully kiss sticky
lip’s bounty
forbiddenly forwardful
i shhhfully touch forbidden
divine’s secret
connection
catching
to aether’s
height, a flight
where
angels dance
and dive
from fingers clasp, i
strive for
something
good and pure,
that time’s
await
will fire
i propose that there is nothing better for the soul than sharing a conversation, a very large bowl of home-made spaghetti bolognaise and a six pack of pilsner – here, in my kitchen, in the softening light and quiet. nothing that is, except the realisation that neither one of us want the night to end.
the sunday morning’s first coffee sip is a stinger on the back of a dry wretched throat. the opening blinds flood a squinting light whose welcome is met with the drizzling rain. within seconds, it is heavy, and falls to spite. they greys are dulcet all around this dry wretched man and his pulsing fogg’ed mind.
he can still hear birds, playing birds. are they courting each other to fuck(?), he wonders. he is, for sure he’d hoped, to be more than a typical dirty man.
there is still an ache here, in the not-so-secret garden of respite. this is where the crossroadskeeper stands. this is where dry wretched brains are held to account. this is where the coffe turns cold, like the birds (those fucking birds), and the wet drizzling and dulcet grey sunday morning sings a song that he’s not quite sure is in our out of tune.
i’ll be your walk-along-the-beach-with-a-laugh-in-your-ears-and-sand-between-your-toes-and-salted-wind-in-your-hair memory tomorrow at sunset, if you’ll let me, if you’ll let me hold your thoughts for a quiet while before something’s nothing again.
look at the stars, they’re here to meet the sparkle in your eye.
deep and far away, deep and near, here, for us.
here, i’ll show you. that’s something.
something // r i g h t // there.
from me, with you, there’s a neversayingness of
a b c d e f g h i j k l m _ _ p q r s t u v w x y z
for what more than turn’upped lips,
swinkering hips and woo’d-fired souls do we live,
say i, say aye,
say really,
say aye
