Thursday, 12 April 2018

Complaints Department

A very British apology, but I’m sorry,
you see, 
I wish to complain:
it’s about the way your lips insist
on pronouncing
my name; about the way that your tongue,
strokes, each sound,
and every letter
rolls around in your exquisite mouth;
the way it tingles my weakened spine, and the way your
coal-eyes, burn relentless, into mine,
I wish to protest about the loss of time, I suffer daily,
recalling your touch:
about the hours I recollect
your precious fingers,
exploring too much…no, too little - it affects concentration,
I chew on my lip,
walk the wrong way in the station,
smile at nothing,
ashamedly wistful,
hissing & whistle, unheard in my blissful, middle-distant haze;
missed train -
just gazing into memory and tasting your name
on my own tongue,
I swallow it down
eager and feverish,
impatience abounds –
I must get home to object to the sound
of your breath,
and your whispers,
that all loop in my mind,
the constant replay of your growls and your sighs,
…it is inconsiderate,
I think you will find,
to be in my dreams as I walk through the park:
I am not asleep,
it is not yet dark, and it seems now
I’ve forgotten the way – I object to these
enforced delusions all day – to reminders of you in a
scent or a sight, that steal my attention,
try as I might to work,
or to travel,
to hold conversation, when all I crave is satiation in
your arms,
and our own secret realm –
behind the front door, where everything melts,
and you wait,
as in a puddle,
I drip
my belongings, and a waterfall
of rain…

“Excuse me, sir,” I whisper,

“is the department for complaints?”

Wednesday, 14 March 2018

The Dark Time

I saw the dark time
when it came again, my love;
I always see. Though you dip, and dive
and hide it from me, like a swallow in a midsummer
sky. I hear the dark time in your silent sighs,
I know its presence in unseen eyes; and there,
was a season, just passed,
of rain. Of thunder-clouds, that made you
roll in pain, of such undetermined kinds;
you laid you down with an unquiet mind,
and I felt it,
my love -
I felt the dark time, when it came again,
and the voice inside me called your name across the shining
night sky;
who came there, walking, close beside
a soul so heavy, as steel? Was I, and all the depth
I feel
to comfort you
to release and sleep…and to watch you dream. For no matter, the dark
times, ever, my love…in you

I will always believe.


Buried secrets lay,
I know,
in the earth, at your feet,
locked and kept, in a treasure chest, from me,
stowed away,
like pirates, at sea through tempestuous
galleon, rocking, in the pale starlight,
and the sight, of land,
up ahead,
waves crashing, and a sense of dread, all hanging from
your life and limb…
But if I call you: ‘dock, and let me in’, I can make a harbour
of my arms,
you can shelter here, until the waters calm, and draw me
a map
to seek,
all the mysteries of which
you do not speak; and you can trace
the roads
on my skin – marking the place you should begin
and all those you must etch with an ‘X’,
sweet gems
and riches blessed, with the sacred
sign of a kiss: here lies,
under this,
a secret of the earth,
and the name of a god,
called out through the deepest fog,
to light the way,
it will clear and brighten the darkest day, and reconnect
ships that have gone astray in
and angry storms…

on the horizon, a silhouette will form,
a touch and an honest caress,
a lighthouse,
in the darkness, for solace,

in distress.  

Life, the Universe and Everything

Look down for a minute, from your solitary star:
there are mines there, of gold, I know,
but they are worth nothing, when you get to them, if you are haggard,
grey, and cold;
if your body stiffens and your soul is sleeping,
I promise nothing shines for miles,
even if you’re sitting on a moon-rock pile, with the cosmos
in twinkling

see: all that space-dust, will make you blind,
to anything but a sleepless night.
Endless space, only makes a cage;
if you never wipe the grit from your face, and your tunnels
are all the paths you can see:
the next piece
of glittering gold, there in the rock
to chip free and bring fortune,
like a river’s full flow;
but fortune is a wheel and a warning, you know,
she is a fairy,
of malice and spite,
who throws many a king from the greatest heights, with her clacking
touch, of bone,

the simple throne, of the kingdom you already survey:
everything touched by the break of day, and the rise of temperate stars…
all you lay your eyes upon,
or embrace in tender arms; is an empire yet.

Look down…
I will leave the runway lit,

bright, like the jewels in your crown…

and at the end of the path, I’ll be waiting,

when your rocket-wheels touch down.  

Sunday, 12 November 2017



Sleep, Sire…I am a pillow

for you,

satin sheets,


and smooth as waters,

undisturbed by the breeze,

yet wild

of heart, like a nightingale, released from her bonds,


all spread,

sleep, great king, my body

is a bed, for you,

and it longs

for your weight; pushing, swaying,

to undulate,

battles and campaigns are for

day-break, for when we have sun,

not these stars;


let my fingers caress your scars and ease

the aches

in your bones,

my lips are a silken cloth,

draped in your lap,


and wholly exposed,

my hair, is gold cords,
at your hips,

my tongue a tender,

revering kiss, that brings its own

precious gift;

a great concerto that grows and lifts into heavenly,  

angel-song, the kind of worship that can never

be wrong;

in holy light,

I kneel

at your feet –


sleep, bold sir,

sleep, my hands in your hair, a crown,


lay your hunger

down and a feast I will set

for your pleasure,

no silver to count

nor payment to measure, close your eyes,

and fall into


sleep, as I pay homage;


I came only to serve you, tonight.