1990-2004

 

Touch deprivation

 

 

I lay alone
while daydreams began
there
seated at some vacant bar
I was soon joined
by an imaginary companion
with a thirst for my secrets.
Her leg touched mine
perhaps accidentally?
Then unmistakable warmth
from a hand on my arm.
Trying not to waver
I continued talking
in imitation of cool
just now
feeling almost alive
until my eyes
opened again
each one
empty as glass.

 

 


 

 

Remnants

 

 

Drained by illness
my feelings were comatose
I tried to prod them awake
or observe
in these surroundings
some unravaged vision

That pavement grey
October sky
already moon-stained

In the garden
petal remnants
yellow to brown

This mind
away again
shying like a horse
crashing over dark leaves
as my mouth
slavers
on the pen.

 

 


 

 

Afterglow

 

 

Resting partly on her soft flesh
impregnated by sleep
warmth coated me
in a soothing varnish
then drifting down
to new sensations
levers turning vaguely
while a conspiracy
of malformed sentences
mutated hazily
their strange fingers poised
above expression-keys
uncertain where to drop.

Later
I woke upon the sofa
of that recent passion
or its appeasement
struggling for recall
grasping at dream’s afterglow
through receding shapes.
We lay pressed together there
at breast and thigh
our bellies made faint cries
as if tiny ocean creatures
had been trapped
behind the skin.

 

 


 

 

Insomnia

 

 

Night is so huge.
Lines mark my face
with memory.

Recalling a compliment
from her eyes
an arm intent on embrace
across our separateness.

Now lonely in this unshared world
anxiety clogs my heart.
Will I be admitted to sleep
at last?

I watch windows darken
while outside
through shuffling leaves
shake rushes of air.

 

 


 

(1994)

 

 

Suspension

 

 

I dreamt about distance.
To lie suspended
over the face of waters
cold as infinity.
Perhaps time would spiral
and I might go on sleeping
like a single entity.

Once cerebral storms parted
for an instant
this mind seemed clear
just entrails of images
still coated with anger
tunnelling the head.

My hand could feel a rifle
I was not quite dead.

 

 


(2004)

 

 

Lassitude

 

 

Weak as a dribble
and too ill for sex
tired even
from dreaming
on another unwelcome morning
one look then
reclosing eyes
soon
doorways to nothingness
open in my mind
over absent possibility
wishing I was once more alive
in carnality
through city nights
with chance to be preyed upon
but here
just unfriendly dawn
blurred across the pallid sky
while this clock ticks
few neurons fire
temper’s flame burning lower
malady forms its closed sphere
I feel squashed there
by forlornness
like a bug.

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