18 October 2017

I can’t wait to see you again.
I can’t wait to see you again.
I sure hope I can see you again.

When I welcome Love in
it just wants to leave again.
What’s the point of living
outside these nunneries?
Is this the pain of ageing or
the ageing of pain?

What’s that invisible sin
that stains my welcome
mat? I’m too good
of a loser now to now
take it personally.

Wave Love goodbye;
it was never a guest
to stay.
Just when I welcomed you
in you decided to leave
again.

And what do I do with
these ticket for you + I? I didn’t
think you’d be able to go anyway.
Planning
Advancing
Scares me more than things that fly.

Oh how I hate those birds + bees
but oh how I hate the anxiety of
thinking long from this moment.

I thought perhaps, at last + at least
you could be my moment.

I can’t wait to see you again.
I can’t wait to meet you again.
I sure hope we meet again.

O’doubt Banish this grief!
It weights me down like gravity.
Flight-full the wisps of love that
I could use with the landing down to
facts.

When things were going right
I needed this left + Love
to leave.

Reminding me of my
place + fate, where
I thought I was
planning my escape.

I listened to the Blues before you
and I’ll still listen now. You
showed me nothing too new
but I think I showed you
a thing, one or two.

I can’t wait to see you again.
I’m afraid to see you again.
Will we ever meet again?

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Watching Violin and Viola Play

He touched her left shoulder with
his right arm. And I’m not sure of where
I stand versus where I stood.
Some things advance +
others lag the same old
different speed.

Some things never will change
Some things I never will understand.
The speed of the day ages
the week and unsure
will garner me a grey man.

Violinist + viola
flirt with music close.
Nothing I’ll never know. I write
with ink + mutterers I’ll sing.
Nothing like a musician’s promise
that keeps these vocal poets
away.

He bought me
a drink. He bought her
none at all.

Some things advance +
others lag the same old
different seed.

The violin + viola
swap strings. I’ll call that
euphemism + leave the
reader to think.

I’ll drink his bought drink
for me + wonder how

Some things never will change
some things I never will understand.
The speed of the day ages the
week + this unsure will
garner me away from
the person present will I be.

The violinist was supposed to leave
a time ago. The viola causes him to stay +
together they’ll play
until this bar closes +
forces them away.

But continue I’ll sit and gently
sip his bought drink.
Wondering how old will I be
how grey my hair’ll grow
before I lose this unsure
ground and the lag speeds will
become no more.

16 October (WIP)

Tonight I left the party early
to home _ read _ write that
poetry.

An ode to the poet punk boys
that I’ve looked _ loved
Their songs.
The ones we aged together
with drugs _ dance _ drink
all swilled together but the
taste most fine, my heart’s divine,
is His mouth my tongue entwined.

To my right I stare
to the poet musician; he
sings. That heartbroken-love
The history of sadness
gravels our voices and
grounds all thought.

Or is it just me _
is it not everyone’s thinking?

Those heartbroke songs
the ones we aged together
behind smoke and wine
all swilled together but
the taste most fine, is my heart’s divine,
is His mouth and my tongue entwined.

4 October

My love speaks
and he says to me:
Don’t play with
this unreturnable
time:

If it isn’t me
then that’s the way
it’ll be.
If it’s not here
I’ll help you move
there.

Panic me not
replied I with a smile.
I am here to stay
for all my days
with the fellow
here in front of
me.

This city we’ll stay
The country away
we’ll spend some days.
But the North
is ours and the North we’ll stay.

Put away the boxes
clear away the cellotape. Uncork
the wine, and we’ll dance
while this place is still clean.

29 September. Band Plays.

Four musicians sit
at a table.
Two violinists
A banjo player
+ my ol’ gee-tar player.
My fingers smell of cigarettes.
My breath it hints of booze.

The sins + shames of my father are free
for me to choose.

My player he talks of writers.
He plays in open chords + sings
heartbroken songs.

Here. A corner am I. My eyes on ink
+ musician prize.

The crowd around me talks of brew,
ears all blinded of my chosen music’d few.
What is a musician when they do not play?
A person holding a tool of leisure, grace + taste.

Harmonied song the two men play. A voice not
listened but definitely heard by all roomed.
The violin, she sings but not heard like my
eyes’ divine.

Eyes of vision. Eyes of sight. How I wish
to hold you tonight.

Three musicians sit at a table. My musician
he stands + looks around. What he thinks.

What I know. The Eternal Difference
Away he goes out through the front door.
Dissolved in smoke + song of
London’s All.

Four musicians at a table.
A rogue man to have joined.
Accordion, squeezing in
+ out in rhythmed,
musician’s time.

My Eyes Divine
still outside.
In a Corner
Here I still am.
Inked fingers
with still haunted
demon’s drink breath.

To ask to be the
cigarette my Divine
lips touch is too
much – even for
a Shakespearian Hamlet
as I.
Instead contented
I will only hope to
forever be by his side.

To my Left he’s now
appeared. By definition is
he to my side.

Cruel Fate. You knew
what I meant. Instead
of 3 feet divided did I
wish to feel his hurried
breath.

Up + down +
Up again.

Five musicians sit.

And gazing alone am I.
Divided by a Diagonal line
am I to my Eyes Divine.
What he wonders +
What I mind.
Difference divided behind
Different-coloured Eyes.

Five musicians now
sit + play.
No words are spoken
but oh what minds might say.