Tag Archives: writing

Luck in Love

Ignatius gnats that
fly never so far away.
The presence overstays,
the annoyance abounds.
Alas am I stuck to
fate noble entwined
the name of mine
to these gnats that fly.

You’ve chosen me
lucky, but luck
rather I’d be
the fate of my loved one
and I instead these
gnats and me.

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1 October 2017

Middle-crossed symphony
agéd watcher, unmusic
undanced though
the talk abounds.

Absent smiling face, even if
he were here
it wouldn’t be grateful fate.

We danced to music this once;
he danced, and my followed eyes,
feet down below shackled to
the mind.

We never danced again,
nor he and me and then alone just me.
In front of mirrors closeted my feet
socked create minimal beat. Song, music
unlike this, repeat and arms flair, doing
justice to my two lame feet.

She in my preferred place.
No musician am I, thus redundant, replaced.
She stares not at my chosen lover’s face
and I wonder why she’s taken my place.

Her fingers do move, but then so do this hand’s
five. Pen is my fiddle, but the bitch
still took my place.

28 August 2017

The two accordions
sound like mice squealing.

Oh so different from last night.
So it is, subdued
demeanour and silence strong.

The men talk to men,
I talk to no one.

My mother on the phone line
telling me her life.
Quiet smile and untalked nods.

The garden needs mowing,
the husband never does.
Quiet disharmony ruining
perfection on this sunny day.

She’s the one to go, I return to my
GMT. This life is a simple one,
if one allows it to be.

An apology:

Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes
unclean.

The fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.

The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.

Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.

I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.

But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.

To try my triumph,
to fail my past.

To colour anything so darling is
skill,
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.