one hundred and one

As foundling, unfurnished from birth -
Incubator of little consequence -
Someone left me in an emptying bar
Curtained like wingless flies…
In slips of space temporarily
Air, not glass nor reflective
Rouge of barmaid lipstick.
Voices spoke from shore of other chairs.

Poured warm wine stilled my mouth
The eyes, perhaps, of one burst berry;
A sudden symphony of an often laid
But hey conductor! Never played.

If then was a hook for my hang-ups,
Today is a twin boomed elevation
Above the wheels, beneath bone doors,
Entry to
Juiced field froth of
Stigmata strawberries,
Hair shirt peeling our
Nectarine flesh.

The silence in chaos,
Chartreuse seaweed caves echo
Sound of a whale scraping shingle.
Hopelessly, we stumble into storms,
In the arms of death'ening sailor song.
 
Our tinder sticks of burning oak
Kindled kith & kin have paid our rent.
In yogetry, your private mantra
Directs my breath on voyage
To those other countries where
We have committed and still do.
Vulval lips tightening as tension holds  
Your legs enfold a world
Blue lotus unfurls your presence.

It’s funny how minutes stretch
Baggage’d alone on windswept platforms.
I met someone like you on the train.
Who was I that summer?
Diary mentions manuscript rains
Pulped, flash (flood) fiction,
Rats gnawed my unread verses
Horses dragged their hearses,
Maybe, words only delight
In the curves of their form.

I met you on the train.
Supine under carriage light
White butterfly came to rest.
Each rippled destination hollers home
Blue Mountain nest of wolf fur,
Threads our thighs to skies
Cradle the ceiling below creased bed sheet,
Portrait of the still life we are etching.

There is beauty in
The rust on an iron gate
Stars reflected in reservoir
Broken oars on riverbed
Smouldering paper fire in gutter alley.
All day you
Could see them
If only
You would look.

It’s been a long walk home…