Peace

Peace

I don't sleep.
I wrestle the darkness.
It smothers my skin; vicious
Visceral oil.
I kick and drown.
Kick and drown.
The bastard won't release me,
Even when rabbited by passing cars.
The duvet cements
                     me to the sheets
Like melting marshmallow.
The pillows, like 16-bit ghosts,
Attack and retreat
Attack and retreat.
In your absence I am less than usual
(as usual).
I long for the door to creak;
To feel you clamber over me.
Your scent, silvery skin,
Warmth.
Ah, at last,
Peace.

Help the (Middle) Aged

Old enough to know better
We lay out in the crisp, damp grass
In our Sunday best
And made no mention of the clouds
That looked like Groucho Marx or flamingos.
Instead we let our toes toy with the idea of touching;
Coyness getting the better of them eventually.
Instead I marvelled at her eyes
(Two neighbouring discotheques competing for custom).
Instead we talked and we listened in turn.

Half a lifetime away
And we may have danced through the fountain
Fully clothed
Or turned cartwheels
Until the flamingos turned pink and took wing.
Perhaps we are too long in the trousers now
To fall for Cupid’s trickery twice.
Perhaps Freya and Radha and Kama
Can see that we are middle-aged
And able to handle things on our own for once.

It’s difficult to say for sure
It is a foreign land to me it seems,
Virgin territory.
It would appear that my compass was broken before
And my map had been held upside down.
But wherever this is we find ourselves
We seem to speak the language.
Wherever this is that we are
The customs suit us well.
Whatever this country turns out to be
We’ll be fine; they welcome the middle-aged.

Bukowski

I’m amazed
More people don’t write like Bukowski.
Everyone is bitter
Everyone is selfish
No one gives a shit about anyone else

On reflection
Perhaps everyone does
And the city is festooned with
Nests built from poems of sadness