Rare

 

Rare

 

 

Something so bloody rare, so really blue,

seared quick, flipped both sides and sealed,

piled lots on both plates, lover, high stakes,

so rare it’s scarcely found in your lifetime,

laid bare see true odds, one to one million.

So precious a gem, so priceless a metal,

blood red porcelain would not compare,

finest bone china in willow patterned story,

we read it in our drowsy sleep and weep.

Slips through your fingers while you watch

like mooring rope tugged by ebbing tides,

boats diverging toward grey horizons wide.

To throw this overboard, would be a crime

unsolved, file all lovers' records over time,

yet still spend long years banged up inside,

contemplate that most love is compromise.

Never to catch another skittering butterfly;

too busy pinning lives to red heart’s lies.

No Work for Tinkers' Hands

 

No Work for Tinkers' Hands

 

 

Oh, if I could cast off these 30 years,

believe me now, I would be hers.

Burn calendar’s unfriendly pages,

kissing mouths will roll back ages,

twisting tongues, fever our hands,

scream out ifs, buts, pots and pans.

Ripping off clothes in revelation,

hungry eyes’ scanty contemplation,

rise in swords, push jungles open,

take inside this love full swollen.

A fall of black fringe over dark eyes,

pants passion loud in deep disguise.

Oh, the perfume is heaven scent,

red gloss might shimmer in consent,

smile tossed scorn in my direction

does dazzle, she is indeed perfection,

gasp for breath, she strokes her hair,

choke on words that want for air,

her gaze questions if I'd even dare?

One fall will we sit, back to back,

for she will give me what I lack.

In a heartbeat I'd throw all of it over

for just one chance to be her lover.

Melt with lust knowing disdainful eyes,

take my hand and fall sweet in demise.

The Day of the Cat

 

The Day of the Cat

 

If I ask you to accompany me, offer loving arms,

to stand tall among rough thistle and ferns,

would lips curl and sneer, hard heart out of reach,

gasping like starfish aground on the beach?

Oh, I read in silver pieces, know I am right,

face down your heartbreak before you take flight.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I wrote words of passion and sang you my verse,

would you laugh in joy to hear love rehearsed?

Better at slating me; send out for a hearse,

my songs do not reach you, life only gets worse.

Oh, I think I read in stone words on my tomb,

your chrysanthemum fading lily white bloom.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I asked you to chase me, run wild through my mind,

unearth our deep forests, remain there entwined,

would you mock-up a soft sigh, to yawn and cry,

‘wolf, wolf’, shoot down sheep standing idly by?

Oh, I think those chestnut words stain your face,

translating anything true to some other place.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I stretch out to catch you, as you surely fall,

melt ice from your face when I pity your call,

sponge pain from the eyes you study in shame,

will you shoulder our balance of loss and gain?

Oh, I see us strongly in your weakening years

ripping pages from journals as pussycat purrs.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

 

If I give her my guitar, would she learn to play

sweet songs of tomorrow, sad songs of today,

burn mustard manuscripts of weary yesterday?

If I give her my pen, will she script our play?

Oh, I hear her calling from love’s future,

with sweet words to lay me down and tutor:

 

She cups me and teases, plays me like twine,

flashing forever eyes, she asks to be mine,

pleasure long and languid, devours salty wine,

summons me inside to cave soaking brine.

Oh, I feel new now as glad fountains outpour,

she lies back drenched and begs me for more.

 

Bright sun is rising and pale moon will ask,

if this drying tear will be our last?

Dark nights of Black Angel will finally pass,

when here dawns the Day of the Cat.

Cathedral

 

Cathedral

 

 

You will be sitting one day

beneath shedding May cherry blossoms,

on the flower beds by our Cathedral.

Warm the winds of spring,

thinking little of nothing

amongst a heliotrope

of bloodstone blooms, but older.

And from behind you,

two hands will fall on either shoulder,

in your ear, a soft voice trembles,

whispering: ‘don’t look round’.

The hairs on your neck will prick like thorn,

your heart in its cage will thump reborn,

your face moon-pale will flush in sunrise,

your blood will flower into song that flies,

and in reply you’ll make no sound.

But now your fingers intertwine,

deep love new buds upon heaving vine.

Catastrophe Pussycat

 

Catastrophe Pussycat

 

 

A taste of things to come,

dances on my tongue.

She screamed at me

all caps lock

in system shock

to be left behind,

I'm out of dreaming,

no power of flight.

Would take her with me,

but no strength to fight,

left me down past

until somewhere next life.

Virtual begging;

find her own way out.

Oh, remember,

I will always love you,

work as a waitress

in a cocktail bar

crushing ice,

crushing life,

pushing therapy,

on retail belts,

thick skin inured

to weals and welts.

 

 

Find me pressing along in one direction,

eyes fixed upon certain destination;

so very long in writing songs for her,

singing out too many ‘so far, so goods’,

while sobbing ‘that’ll do, may as well’,

and just how far it is, I cannot tell,

a system trap and we cannot be free,

wringing theory from sodden sponges,

when, feint left field, parry - here she lunges,

a batangas wielder, she’s an arch huntress.

Well, after you, my Pussycat Catastrophe.

 

 

Grabbing his pen, strumming his strings,

writes verse that speaks of forbidden things:

wishing you are beside me, bare cuddling,

to kiss me so soft, my red lips parting,

seek precious pearl in this hot wet cave,

don’t stop, we’ll come both together yet,

My will submits to take in even more of you,

pushing thick inches by inch by inch,

your strong sword will conquer my soul,

explode in my mouth, my spirit, my man,

I will possess you, will bewitch all I can.

 

 

It just flips, system down,

behaviour changer,

your long familiar,

more lost and stranger,

ditch cracking the safe,

embrace the danger.

 

 

Ways you undress me, ways you sound,

songs of your laugh make hearts to pound,

your scent awakes my woman inside,

our skin to skin, in rhythms and writhe,

save it up for tonight, oh I will be wild,

drink you all for breakfast with salty smile.

Tease me until our hair gets grey,

tease so gentle, for my kitty must play,

then come with me on our darkest day.

The moon will shine on my love for you,

the sun that blossoms in hearts both true,

our passion huge as foamy oceans deep,

lie in my loving arms to bless and sleep.

 

 

Catastrophe theory in pussycat tangles,

a new life flowers of perfect angles,

she draws me to her like balls of string,

then opens wide and takes me in.