Adam and Steve

 

I wonder that this world should rue itself,

Such angry, bullying winds, such grumbling skies,

Shoulders hunched against its skulking greys.

 

You could strive for paradise, yearn for it, and lose.

Maybe our way, darling, is fine enough,

Idle in innocence, unambitious, in love.

 

This other place – this yawning, dreamy gulf

Of sleepy seas – it came to us by fate.

You thought me charming, I thought you were cute.

 

Perhaps partaking of slightly different fruits,

With stranger temptations, it might have been

That two men would not care to lose an Eden.

 

For Blair. 

“No thank you I quit”

 

She laughingly looked at me, offering: “Now,

Wouldn’t you just kill for a cigarette, hun?”

I replied to say, if I’d the wherewithal, how

I would either decline, or I’d kill her for one.

 

 

Not smoking is going very well thanks nope I’m fine don’t talk to me about cigarettes thank you no. 

Cameron Lane

 

Arrived back here, I was confronted with

Evidence of a previous life, littered memories –

No, not memories: indistinctly forgotten things.

A thousand simple things cacophonous

In their reticence. A Yale key to an

Unknown door that’s somewhere locked; receipts

From nights out, the colours faded to a

Papered obscurity; lid of a pen

You used to scribble a memo for me, now

Unremembered. It reminded me – as it were –

How artists in still life do capture death

In one frame, exquisite detail of the peel

And rind and pips left on a plate;

Aspects of incidence, as manifest

In accidental mess and unwashed bowls.

How Time is rendered real and tangible

Through minutiae. How light, itself

Invisible, refracts upon a surface

Or in dust motes, renders itself to gold.

 

 

Acts of Settlement

 

When he thought of the chattels, removed

From the old house as a crime scene, identified

And inventoried, he wondered at how

The house of the deceased was already

Empty. Grand piano, now sarcophagus

For song; each jug, a patient urn; master bed,

A flesh-cold slab, almost immoveable.

Like a crossword, the clue for funeral

Is “Real fun arranged for an interment (7)”.

Among the family, it was carefully explained that

Floral tributes are deductible expenses:

This they knew. He also recalled that

The registration of death is separate to

The registration of the fact of death.

The reading of the Will was later still,

Such that the wishes of a testator are

The signature of a dead hand. Mortmain

Is the etymology of any trust, funnily enough,

Placing intention into lifeless fingers,

And the fingers grasp it.

 

The family had deducted their outgoings

Against the bleak umbrellas and the cortege

Of lacquer-glinting black. That most

Beloved son, they said. Gave all his names.

Not one of them had known just what he was.

That earth was not their earth to edify.

And thinking to that dead hand, he could state

That given his wishes, speaking now on paper

Louder than any human voice, that to this day

Every headstone is a perjury.

 

 

Handheld

 

As colour refracts through

An arcade of blossom,

Sideways motions from

A scented impromptu

Flurry of tree’s hands,

Commemorating

Applause, delighting

In light, astounds

The air and you kept hold

Tight, our new June time, and

When I am handheld,

I shine with it.

 

 

Vaguely optimistic nonsense poetry about being young and in love, and in Spring. 

Stir

 

To grace upon my neck a silent prayer,

Most gentle weight; how little to unmake

A man, your voiceless word, to have me there,

To have my heart and very presence shake.

 

Inciting me with ease desirous, such

To pour me out like silk upon your bed;

Unravel and unweave your whispered touch

To please your lilac colours, fine as thread;

 

My lips part, that I breathe that voiceless word

Into these tender urgencies: I cry

For mercy, overcome by you who stirred

This agony of touch to glorify;

 

Can’t dare to breathe, that silken word unsaid,

Your lilac touch that had me here to die.

 

 

For Blair. 

Widow

 

If I should drift, my duvet is your hold,

To bear me for those precious moments few;

 

If dreaming, all the emptiness within

Delights in colours wondrous, and untold;

 

And before they even open, my eyes drink in

The dozing, blissful, lost, redolent you.

 

They open; and the ghost of what was seen

In sleep awakes before me, never been:

 

You are not here. So soft, alone, I must

Descend an unlit stair: I hold my breath.

 

My sick heart startles me; and hidden sideways

Shadows blink, deceive; I dare not trust

 

A quiet room. The mirror now soothsays

The death behind me, beckoning to death.

 

 

The first few stanzas are dedicated, and were written for, my darling Blair. He has been away for a few nights, and I miss him dearly, and long for his company again. The rest happened because I can’t help being a morbid little thing.